whom the wheel of fortune spins capriciously. Their idle hours are
spent among their comrades in the cabarets and the little _boîtes_
tucked away in odd corners of Montmartre, where they breakfast and
dine, accompanied by their sweethearts.
Of the latter they are a type unto themselves and wholly aloof from the
life and night types of the rue Blanche.
Gaston the painter is a disciple of Botticelli, and you find the
influence of dress and coiffure of that period asserting itself in the
style of clothes and arrangement of hair of his sweetheart, Mariette.
With her locks in _bandeaux_ she looks as saintly as a church picture.
Jacques the musician, a composer of sixteenth century pavans and
minuets, has dressed the fair Amélie in an old-fashioned frock, cut low
about the throat; her pretty face is framed in two curls, and there is
a rose in her hair.
Sing, dance and be merry, ye children of the Butte! Ye who have
inherited the Paradise of Bohemia, ye who know its every nook and
corner, its bright and its dark days, its poverty and its riches! The
love and the wealth of _camaraderie_ is yours. To you the rest of the
world counts for naught.
To you, Gaston, a health to Mariette. To you, Jacques, a toast to “la
Petite Amélie.”
[Illustration]
Chapter Six
IN THE CABARETS
With the passing away of that most famous of _Montmartrois_ cabarets,
the Chat Noir, artistic Bohemia of the Butte met with a serious loss.
The Chat Noir was founded by Salis on the boulevard Rochechouart in
1881. Its beginning was a modest one, and for some time the little
place existed in obscurity. Finally a club of bohemians called the
“Hydropathie” came over from the Quartier Latin and made the Chat Noir
their place of meeting.
They organized weekly reunions where each member of this jolly company
recited original verses or sang songs of his own composition.
These reunions soon became open to the public, and so the first singing
cabaret of its kind was created.
The small room was filled with a collection of bas-reliefs, busts and
drawings, contributed by its artist habitués. It offered nightly a
shelter to the budding genius of Bohemia and a place of free license
for patriotic and political songs, satires, and parodies upon the
current topics of the day.
And so the cabaret that Salis had started became an acknowledged
success.
Later Salis moved the Chat Noir to the rue Laval, where it became an
organized cabaret with a regular staff of poets, singers, and
satirists, who made their appearance no longer in public as amateurs
but as professionals.
Many of the lives of these _chansonniers_ have been varied and
checkered with vicissitudes. Few, if any, began either as singers or
entertainers. They have drifted into their profession through their
inherent love of a life steeped in the atmosphere of Bohemia, where
things original, beautiful, satirical, or pathetic, find ever the
keenest appreciation and the shrewdest criticism.
The various occupations to which Fate had so cruelly destined these
bohemians with the sacred fire of art burning unceasingly within their
breasts, could not long be borne with patience. Many had been doomed by
practical and unsympathetic parents to become bank clerks, merchants,
accountants in gas companies, engineers or architects. All of these
sordid careers were regarded as an unbearable present and an impossible
future by inspired bards whose lyres were tuned to a higher key than
the humdrum of business.
Within these singing poets the sacred fire of genius smoldered, but not
for long. Like a live coal in the ashes it burst into gentle flame when
breathed on by approbation. Soon the flicker became a blaze of glory;
the names of those who had left their distasteful situations in the
commercial world were heralded with praise by thousands.
These bards of the Butte thenceforth consecrated the remainder of their
lives to the Muses. Nightly they sang to the listening throng. All of
intellectual Paris came to applaud them, and their stuffy little
cabaret of the Chat Noir was jammed nightly to the doors.
Salis by the advice of Emile Goudeau published a paper called the “Chat
Noir,” in which appeared sketches and poems of authors like Armand
Masson, Rollinat, Haraucourt, and other members of the club,
illustrated by now celebrated artists, such as Steinlen, Caran d’Ache,
Henri Rivière, and Willette, with drawings and cartoons in an original
style hitherto unknown.
In 1885 Salis moved the Chat Noir to the rue Victor Massé. The cabaret
was redecorated with rare taste and became a popular rendezvous for the
_haut monde_. So great was the crush that the club was forced to place
a guardian before the door and permit only twenty persons to enter at a
time.
Henry Somm organized the first theatrical performance given at the Chat
Noir. Before this there had been only the performances of singers and
satirists.
Somm erected a Punch and Judy where he played a burlesque of his own,
entitled “Berline de l’Emigré.”
The performance was found to be much too short. To lengthen it, the
painter Henri Rivière stretched a napkin over the toy proscenium and
passed in defile a procession of policemen cut in cardboard and
silhouetted in shadow against the napkin. As the cardboard policemen
advanced in file, Jules Jouy sang his popular satire on the police
entitled, “Les Sergots.”
[Illustration:
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
SOME OF THE CHANSONNIERS IN THE CABARET QUAT-Z’ARTS]
This was the beginning of the shadow shows which made for years the
Chat Noir famous. Here appeared the famous creations of Rivière and
Flagerolle, the March à l’Etoile and l’Enfant Prodigue.
Later an ingenious shadow stage with intricate mechanism was installed
and a series of shadow plays followed. Many of the puppets for these
exist to-day in the cabaret of the Quat-Z’Arts, some of which are the
work of Caran d’Ache.
Much of what once made the Chat Noir famous exists to-day in the best
known of all the _Montmartrois_ cabarets, the Quat-Z’Arts. Here sing
the best of the _chansonniers_, and there is seldom a night when the
back room of the cabaret in which this “smoker” occurs is not obliged
to close its doors because there is literally no place for one more
chair. The accompanist at the piano has hardly room for his elbows, and
the singer just enough space to stand in. The walls of the low-ceiled
room are hung with the inimitable caricatures by Léandre and with
sketches by celebrated artists.
The front room by which you enter and which is used as a café is a
picturesque interior filled with busts and bas-reliefs, and more of
Léandre’s clever drawings.
A rustic stairway leads to a rambling gallery above.
The whole resembles the interior of some quaint, half-timbered tavern
filled with artistic productions of men of genius. The interior of the
Quat-Z’Arts was not made to order; it grew, and it walls are hung with
souvenirs gathered from its clientèle of comrades whose work as
sculptors and draftsmen is known the world over.
The singers whose songs and satires have made the Quat-Z’Arts famous
are men of rare genius and fine intellect, and by no means the idle
bohemians you might expect to find.
Dominique Bonnaud is such a man. As a singing satirist, a polished
writer and the most subtle of humorists, he stands preeminent. Bonnaud
was at one time secretary to Prince Bonaparte, and in eleven years of
travel made several voyages around the world. His experiences at
foreign courts and among foreign potentates have supplied him with
themes for many of his satires. These deal with politics and current
topics, and hit at nobility in general and some noblemen in particular.
To the _chansonnier_ Jean Bataille is due an interesting revival of the
old songs of France. Songs like “Monsieur le Curé” and the “French
Grenadier” Bataille sings with rare charm. He is essentially an
entertainer, and outside of his nightly appearance at the Quat-Z’Arts
has made a success in several _revues_ of his own invention. In these
he has played at regular theaters, the Mathurins and the Capucines.
There is nothing of the type of a bohemian singer in the personality of
Monsieur Bataille. This polished man of the world passed through a
brilliant career as a member of the bar and was at one time secretary
to the Minister of Interior.
Georges Tiercy is not only a singer but the most inimitable of
comedians. His creations are unique. Sometimes he requires the
accompaniment of the piano, and sometimes he does not, but, whichever
way it is, he keeps his audience at the Quat-Z’Arts in roars of
laughter.
It is Tiercy who sings his “Banquet to Monsieur Loubet,” “The Humbert
Family,” and the “Train de Marchandises,” the latter ending with an
imitation of grand opera which I can assure you is quite as complete as
the grand opera itself and five times as amusing. “Come and see me,”
said Tiercy one day as we sat chatting in the Quat-Z’Arts. He opened
his wide gray eyes at me and passed his hand thoughtfully over his
short-cropped forehead. Then he added in a hoarse whisper:
[Illustration:
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
CARICATURES OF CHANSONNIERS BY LÉANDRE]
“I live in a forest! It is at Bois Colombes. Ah! my friend, you shall
see a little house at the very edge of the real country. Come out and
have a _petit verre_ with me.” Then he frowned as he took out his watch
and hurriedly left me to catch his train.
A few days later I went out to Bois Colombes to see him. The place did
not look very woodsy as I got out of the train. There were no dark
fastnesses or wild ravines; in fact, Bois Colombes was, if anything,
sadly lacking in verdure. The town itself was quite a practical little
place built up with modern houses.
Finally I came to the villa of my friend, the last of a pretty group of
houses enclosed by a hedge. The author of the “Train de Marchandises”
came out to greet me. He seemed worried and preoccupied and explained
to me he was much fatigued, having just returned from a hard journey to
Brussels where he had sung the day before.
“And where is the forest?” I asked.
“Ah!” he replied, as if saving a surprise, “you shall see. Come into
the house and we will have a bottle of stout.”
[Illustration:
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
GEORGES TIERCY IN HIS GARDEN AT BOIS-COLOMBES]
I found the home of this serious humorist filled with interesting
souvenirs of his life as a comedian and a _chansonnier_, and we sat
chatting until late. My friend with the mysterious air told me many
interesting incidents of his career which, in its early days, was one
of mingled failure and success. Having played for many years in
_revues_ and operettas, Tiercy founded in 1893 his cabaret, the
Carillon, where, with his creations, “The Clown Badaboum” and “Opéra
Maboul,” he achieved a triumph—“_a succés fou_!”
The Carillon failed after a short existence, for this man of humor,
this generous son of Bohemia, was unsuited to the ways of close-fisted
managers. Tiercy lost twenty thousand francs in the enterprise. He went
back to his profession and sang in the Sans-Souci. Since then he has
been a success as a mimic in nearly all the cabarets of Montmartre and
the Latin Quarter.
“And now,” said my host seriously, “a glimpse at my woodland.” He
opened the curtains of his sanctum. A spare group of trees hardly hid
the next villa from view.
“My friend,” I said, “it is as you say, a veritable _pays sauvage_.”
And I hurried for my train with Tiercy’s laugh ringing in my ears.
[Illustration: AT THE QUAT-Z’ARTS
_Drawing by_ CARDONA]
While the back room of the Quat-Z’Arts is crowded nightly, the front
room is filled with bohemian habitués; groups of painters, poets, and
musicians sit chatting at the tables, some of them writing, others
playing cards or dominoes.
In one corner Bonnaud, having finished his song, is engrossed in a
manuscript. At another table a poet singer is correcting the verses of
a new song with a fellow bard.
Next to these a girl, quite as _Montmartroise_ as Marcelle, is in
earnest conversation with a “type” in a black broad-brimmed hat and a
stock wound about his throat. Perhaps it is the beginning of a romance,
more likely the aftermath of an ended one. The girl had been crying.
“_Toujours l’amour!_” mutters an old bohemian in a rusty velvet coat,
as he glances from his corner at the pair. He trickles a little fresh
water into his absinthe and bends again over his writing.
The door opens and the singer, Gabriel Montoya, enters, hastily shaking
hands with those about him and rushing to the back room, where his
arrival is greeted with thunderous applause.
Monsieur Montoya’s poetic locks that crown his noble brow are mussed as
if he had just escaped from a panic. He is invariably introduced as
“Monsieur le Docteur” to his audience, his early life having been
devoted to the study of medicine. He is a man of wide experience,
having at one time made a tour around most of the world as a ship’s
surgeon.
In personality Montoya is a mixture of a Chesterfield and the generous,
open gallantry of a Don Quixote. Together with these qualities he
possesses a tenor voice of rare charm. Besides all this he is a _bon
garçon_ and one of the most popular _chansonniers_ of Montmartre.
At one time during his career his health broke down and he was ordered
south. Here he remained for some time away from Paris, and the report
was current of his death. He was eulogized in several lengthy
obituaries by leading journalists. These he had the rare opportunity of
reading. During his convalescence he wrote “The Posthumous Author” and
“The Verses of One who did not Die.” He took his degree of medicine in
Montpellier. Hardly twenty-four hours after passing his degree he came
across some of his old comrades from Montmartre in the street, who were
then making a concert tour in the south of France. Their joy at seeing
their old friend risen, as it were, from the grave, knew no bounds, and
they insisted upon his accompanying them. This he did, abandoning his
career of medicine to sing again.
[Illustration: A CABARET OF MONTMARTRE]
He made his début at the Chat Noir in 1890. It was there that an
incident occurred which illustrates Montoya’s remarkable memory.
“Phryné,” the shadow play by Maurice Donnay, was performing when its
author became involved in a duel with Catulle Mendes. Donnay was
wounded, and therefore he was unable to return to the Chat Noir to
recite the play. Salis in this extremity turned to Montoya for aid. The
latter in one afternoon learned the twelve hundred lines of “Phryné”
and recited them the same evening without a mistake.
To Paul Delmet Paris owes many of her popular songs. This veteran
_chansonnier_ has composed volumes of exquisite ballads, parodies and
satires. His songs, such as “Stances à Manon,” “Brunette aux Yeux
Doux,” and his amusing “L’Escalier,” every Parisian knows. They are
sung everywhere.
The late _chansonnier_, Aristide Bruant, was as extravagant and
impractical as the great Balzac. He lived like a prince through good
and bad luck in his château outside of Paris, and, dressed in black
velvet, drove daily to and from his cabaret in Montmartre in a smart
turnout. De Bercy, his friend, tells the following anecdote of Bruant:
He came banging at De Bercy’s door early one morning. “I have just been
chosen as a candidate for election at Belleville Saint Fargeau,” cried
Bruant excitedly, waking up the sleepy De Bercy. “Get into your clothes
in a gallop; you will have to make my speech for me and we have just
time to catch the train. We will breakfast at Belleville. I have
accepted an invitation for both of us. We’ll breakfast first and you
will have time to write your speech afterwards.”
Bruant could sing all night, but speech-making was not in his line.
The two hurried to Belleville and breakfasted, and afterwards De Bercy
wrote madly for three hours and finished the address. Bruant knew that
if he would ingratiate himself in the hearts of the Bellevillians he
must do so by expressions indicating his sympathy with the current
wrongs of the community. He must touch upon the rights of the widows
and orphans, the wrongs of the working man, and other kindred topics.
It happened that Bruant had in his repertoire a lot of songs upon these
very topics, none of which the good people of Belleville had ever heard.
The hour arrived and before a large and enthusiastic audience De Bercy
launched into his speech. Each time he finished a portion of his
discourse upon the widows or orphans, Bruant would burst into a song
relative to the subject. He had one ready upon every question upon
which his confrère spoke. The Bellevillians cheered and Bruant was
elected by an overwhelming majority amid a furor of good-fellowship and
an outpouring of the red wine of Belleville Saint Fargeau!
The “Treteau de Tabarin,” familiarly known as the “Boîte à Fursy,” is a
unique mixture of cabaret and theater in the rue Pigalle. Its owner and
manager, Henri Fursy, is the author of the celebrated “Chansons
Rosses.” These rough and ready satires are sparkling with wit. To
invent a new type of songs is the achievement of an epoch, and this is
what Fursy has done. He tells me he is not a poet, that his rhymes are
often very poor.
“My style is not always good,” he said to me; “my songs are satires
written upon the spur of the moment, and precisely in this crude state
I present them to the public. If I worked over them they would lose
much of their freshness.”
There is nothing of the bohemian _chansonnier_ in Monsieur Fursy. He is
a dapper, smartly dressed, alert, courteous, clean-cut man of business.
By his wits, push and energy, he has made a success of his theater.
[Illustration:
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
HENRI FURSY IN THE FOYER OF HIS THEATER]
Perhaps he has seen too much of the Parisian method of transacting a
business deal. This consists in taking four weeks to think about the
proposition, several more of leisurely indecision, and a corresponding
length of time to settle the matter. The Frenchman is astonished if in
the meantime some other fellow with a little Anglo-Saxon hustle in him
has seized the opportunity and signed the contract.
The quaint, rambling, half-timbered interior of the foyer to the Boîte
à Fursy is exceedingly picturesque. Rare drawings and etchings line the
walls. The foyer has an ancient air about it of having been used as a
hostelry during the Middle Ages. The walls are done in rough plaster
and quartered beams. In one corner a primitive staircase leads to a
rambling gallery, and the audience passes into the quaint auditorium
through rough wooden doors running under a low rustic shed.
All of smart Paris goes to the Boîte à Fursy. It is the smallest and
one of the most expensive theaters in Paris, but the performance upon
the small stage is sparkling with wit from beginning to end. Here short
satirical _revues_ are given by Fursy and other famous _chansonniers_,
with Odette Dulac in the principal rôle.
[Illustration:
Caricature by Cappiello
ODETTE DULAC]
Mademoiselle Dulac is Parisian from the butterfly in her cadmium orange
hair to the points of her satin slippers. This inimitable artiste is
made up of two parts deviltry and one part champagne. She handles the
most risqué situations with a delicious delicacy, humor, and the tact
of a finished comedienne. She is the life of the _revue_ at the Boîte à
Fursy. If you have heard Odette Dulac sing “Je Suis Bête,” in long
years to come the memory of it will serve to lift you out of the blues.
You will recall the daintiness of this piquant and chic _divette_, her
silk stockings, her frou-frou skirt, the glitter of her bodice, and the
irresistible merriness of her eyes as she winked at you over the tip of
her impudent little nose.
But all this is the art of the comedienne. At her home I found
Mademoiselle Dulac a very gracious and charming woman, unspoiled by the
applause that nightly rings in her little ears.
It took the genius of Capiello to caricature Odette Dulac and to give
in a few clever lines all of this amusing artiste’s personality. When
Dulac laughs, her eyes close like tiny half-moons through which the
pupils sparkle—very small windows to a big merry soul.
There are some women who never seem to grow old and to whom youth seems
ever constant. To be merry yourself and to make others merry is surely
one secret of keeping young.
The homes of artists of the Parisian stage differ from the domiciles of
others in the artistic world. The tumbled rattle-trap of a dusty studio
does not appeal to great actors or divas. The homes of many of the
latter are models of luxury and cleanliness.
Much of the perfection of the Parisian actress’s _ménage_ is due to her
faithful bonne, who is companion, cook, waitress, lady’s maid, and who,
in a thousand ways, protects and watches over the interests of her
mistress.
Perhaps the most typical cabaret audience is that in the “Noctambules,”
in the rue Champollion. It is an unpretentious little place of the old
type, where nightly appear some of the best singers of Montmartre:
Tiercy and Montoya, Charles Fallot, Paul Delmet, Bréville, Marinier and
Madame Laurence Deschamps. The last is an artiste of rare charm, who
possesses a voice sweet, pure and flexible, and whose interpretation of
scores of exquisite _ballades_ and _berceuses_ have won for her the
truest of all criticism: sincere applause. But I must not forget the
veteran of them all, the bard of bards, Marcel Legay.
[Illustration:
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
MLLE. ODETTE DULAC AT HOME]
When you hear Legay you will have heard an artist whose stirring songs,
like his “Mon Cheval” and “Les Pieds Devant,” create a furor wherever
he sings them. Legay has a faculty of making you feel the roar of
battle. He sings with fire and virility, and his personality fills the
room.
In many of the cabarets it is the custom to give gala matinées and gala
evenings with more celebrities than usual on the program. A grand
tombola or lottery takes place at the close of the performance, the
receipts being given as a testimonial benefit to one of the singers. It
is needless to say the prizes offered by these good bohemians were
purchased for as little as possible: a two-franc bottle of champagne,
their own posters tied up with a ribbon, copies of their songs, etc.,
etc. Yet the rollicking spirit in which these things are praised by the
poet auctioneers, and the fact that the proceeds are doing good to one
of their number in need, amply repay the loss to one’s pocket.
Besides these gala matinées, classic evenings are given, classic poems
are read, and the ancient songs of Provence and ballads of the
sixteenth century are sung by the same _chansonniers_ who the night
before may have amused you with the “Voyage of Madame Humbert” and
other parodies.
[Illustration:
Pastel by Léandre
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
THE POET JEHAN RICTUS]
The poet Jehan Rictus has been known for years in the cabarets of the
Butte and in those of the _rive gauche_.
Pale, lean and stooping, as he rises to speak he resembles some sad,
nocturnal crane. He seems like one who nursed his melancholy and lived
during his waking hours in the moonlight.
As a young man he descended nightly from the heights of Montmartre,
where he lived, to join a circle of bohemians at the Cabaret de la
Bosse. Here he came into recognition by the recitations of his poems
and soliloquies.
The verses of Rictus dwell in misanthropic bitterness upon the misery
of poverty. They are filled with the soliloquies of a pessimist and a
misanthrope. The bitter misery of his earlier years through which he
was forced to struggle, has no doubt taken the sunlight out of his
heart, and yet beneath the varnish of a crude and bourgeois vocabulary
lies the timber of true genius. What if the grain is fantastically
distorted by a weird imagination! It is prized all the more by the
connoisseurs.
[Illustration:
Poster by Dillon
JEHAN RICTUS]
Another veteran of the cabarets is Louise France.
There is something suggestive of old Paris in this short, squat woman
with her puffy haggard face and her tangled hair.