are trying to keep up traditions there more than anywhere else; true,
as well, the scenery and costumes are of the best. But it is also true
that many of the good actors of the Français have in late years
deserted the house of Molière for freer fields, that the managers have
refused scores of good plays in late years which have been subsequent
successes at other theaters, and that most of the present actors of the
Français, wishing to create a “_genre_,” or shall we call it a
mannerism, of their own, do so at the expense of the true character of
the rôle which they play. Many of them who have become celebrated
refuse to play small parts and, what is even more to be regretted,
disdain to learn the classical repertoire which is the _raison d’être_
of the house of Molière.
[Illustration: A DRESS REHEARSAL AT THE THÉÂTRE FRANÇAIS]
But if the Français does not choose to present new plays and encourage
modern authorship for which purposes the government gives it yearly a
large subvention, other theaters do, and the public have filled them.
But even these latter theaters are hampered by the system of stars and
the desire to attract the public by the well-known name of a successful
author on the bill.
Sometimes the play of the successful author, like the little girl with
the curl in the middle of her forehead, is very, very good, and
sometimes very, very bad, but it is always very, very expensive. On
account of these stars and successful authors, the seats have to be
sold at a high price. Once the expense of production of the play is
covered, the play is forced to a long run, thus limiting the chance of
a new one being given.
For these reasons and many others M. Antoine, a young man who was an
employee of the city gas company, conceived in 1887 an idea of an
entirely different theater where all old traditions would be put aside,
where a play would not be given more than two weeks, thus opening the
door to a great many authors, and where a company of thirty-six actors
would play impartially all rôles and each one would receive for his
services the same pay.
The plays given should be upon every-day life, therefore no expensive
costumes or elaborate scenery would be needed.
The actors were not to come from a dramatic school, but teach
themselves by experience.
Realism was to pervade everything: acting, costumes, scenery and
properties.
In March, 1887, M. Antoine organized the first representation of
“Jacques Damour,” which was such a success that it was taken
immediately by the Odéon. The performance was given in a cheap little
auditorium in Montmartre, hired at as low a figure as possible for the
occasion. None of the actors were professionals. In this first
representation of the “Puissance des Ténèbres,” the cast was:
Men—Monsieur Antoine, still employee of the gas company, an employee
of the Minister of Finances, a secretary at Police headquarters, an
architect, a chemist, a drummer and a _marchand de vin_. Women—a
dressmaker, a bookbinder, an employee at the Post-office, etc., etc.
All this cast rehearsed in the evening after long hours in office and
store.
In spite of keeping expenses as low as possible, Antoine was in debt
after the first representation and was obliged to wait two months
before he could give another performance.
Finally the company succeeded in giving seven or eight representations
in a little _salle_ of the rue Blanche, and from there went to the
Théâtre Montparnasse, and thence to the Menus Plaisirs, where the
Théâtre Libre exists at the present day under the name of the Théâtre
Antoine.
With this little company it was not always easy sailing. Had it not
been at the time for the generous help of the press and the kindness of
the director of the vaudeville who sub-rented his hall to the ambitious
troupe for next to nothing, it would have met with financial ruin. But
the plays they gave attracted attention. Nowhere had such daring
realism and freedom from old traditions been attempted.
From 1887 to 1890 the Théâtre Libre produced one hundred and
twenty-five new “acts,” and presented the plays of thirty dramatic
authors whose work had never been heard before. Besides these, they
produced the plays of fourteen authors whose work had been represented
in Paris only once.
They had upon their programs among others the plays of Zola, Tolstoy,
Turgéneff, and Ibsen, and introduced many plays which subsequently were
reproduced upon the best stages of Paris. The good that Antoine has
accomplished by his indomitable energy and the efforts of those who
have been with him through these experiments is sufficiently proven by
the fact that while the company produced one hundred and twenty-five
plays, the Français during that same period of time produced only
twenty-five new plays and received seven hundred and twenty thousand
francs from the government as subvention, a sum given towards the
expense of mounting new plays. The Odéon during this time produced
sixty-seven “acts” and received three hundred thousand francs from the
government!
Monsieur Antoine does not believe in considering that a room has only
three sides. That is why he maintains it is legitimate to turn one’s
back on an audience if by reason of stage position the situation calls
for it. Neither does he believe the room in which the drama occurs can
be surrounded by imaginary apartments of dingy canvas, so the doors
upon his stage have real locks and open upon other rooms as
realistically furnished as the one within whose walls the action takes
place.
In the matter of costumes he is equally realistic, and every detail of
the style is genuine.
If it is a question of a library, there are real books upon real
shelves. These important attentions to detail are carried out through
all his plays. He does not believe that, because an object is at the
back of the stage, it should be made of papier maché or, what is worse,
painted on the back flat.
When you have seen three of his late productions, “La Fille Eliza,” the
story of a girl condemned to death; “La Bonne Espérance,” a tragedy of
a Holland fishing town; and “L’Indiscret,” a modern society play; you
will realize the genius and capability of Monsieur Antoine and his rare
company who work conscientiously together for the ensemble of a
finished production rather than for individual applause.
Among the _haut monde_ of Paris the finesse of the most complex social
intrigue is understood to perfection. The Parisian society play deals
with a series of _risqué_ situations.
[Illustration: A STAR’S DRESSING-ROOM]
The noisy, cruel, villain of the society play as we know him is not
seen here. The three principal characters are the “Charming and
Beautiful Wife,” the “Distinguished Husband,” whom she does not love,
and the “Jolly Young Man,” whom she does. Her attractive salon seems to
be especially adapted to the furtherance of the amours of certain of
her women friends whose husbands, it is to be presumed, are having tea
and conversation elsewhere.
Matrimony is taken for granted as a calamity, an unfortunate episode to
be remedied as soon as possible.
In the second act the Charming Wife heavily veiled sweeps into the
Jolly Young Man’s modest apartment.
“_Enfin!_” he cries, and the lovers embrace as if in a dream.
This is quite an exciting part, for it is not long now before you will
hear the heavy foot of the deceived husband upon the stairs.
“_Ah! voilà!_ here he comes!” The Charming Wife emits a little stifled
scream as she recognizes his step, and the Jolly Young Man, failing to
hide her in his wardrobe, puts on as bold a front as possible and
awaits the opening of his door.
Enter the Husband!
Not in a frenzy, with cocked revolver as we are used to seeing him, not
a bit of it. He comes in pleasantly and bows formally to madame and to
the Jolly Young Man. Through all he preserves the dignity of a visiting
general with a flag of truce. He even begs the pardon of the Jolly
Young Man for his interruption.
“Will you have the goodness, monsieur, to leave madame and myself alone
for a moment; I have something which I wish to say in private?”
“_Parfaitement, monsieur_,” answers as ceremoniously the Jolly Young
Man, and goes out.
When the Jolly Young Man has gone, madame attempts the usual distracted
flood of explanations, then, realizing the artificiality of them all,
shrugs her shoulders.
It is at this juncture that the Husband, as if speaking to some
indiscreet comrade, addresses madame as “my friend.”
“_Mon amie_,” he begins, “you must know that I, too, love another.”
“You have a mistress, of course,” replies madame, accepting this
foregone conclusion as a preliminary to what may follow.
“Naturally, my friend, but it is not of Mademoiselle de Tréville that I
speak, it is of one of your best friends, _une femme sérieuse, exquise,
ravissante_!” and he clasps his hand and looks toward heaven.
“Louise?” asks madame.
“_Parfaitement, mon amie._”
“_Tiens!_ That is funny,” replies madame, with a little amused smile;
“but what of her husband?”
“It will be difficult, but I think it can be arranged,” replies
monsieur dramatically.
Upon the reentrance of the Jolly Young Man, all three begin a breezy
conversation touching as lightly as possible upon the painful episode
of the interrupted rendezvous.
“I leave for Nice to-morrow,” says the Husband, picking up his silk hat
and his yellow kid gloves. “_Bonsoir, mes amis_,” and he bows himself
out through the modest portal of the Jolly Young Man’s apartment as the
curtain falls.
[Illustration: MARDI GRAS ON THE BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS]
All Paris poured into the Grands Boulevards on Mardi Gras. From the
Madeleine to the Place de la Bastille, this broad thoroughfare was a
compact surging sea of human beings. Those who had space enough danced,
some as clowns, some as harlequins. There were women in doublets and
hose, in boys’ clothes, in every conceivable get-up that could be
dragged from the boxes of cheap costumers. This human sea laughed at
each other in the best of good nature and threw paper confetti tit for
tat all day and half the night. Paris seemed to have been visited by a
vari-colored blizzard that roared whirling by, a February wind, over
the heads of the sea of merry-makers. It piled itself in great
kaleidoscopic drifts in the gutters and got down thousands of people’s
necks. The air was filled with dust, and from the balconies shot long
streamers of paper ribbons, some caught in the trees below, others fell
entangling themselves round the _chapeaux_ of the passing crowd.
At certain points the busses crossed amid cheers, but otherwise no
vehicles were allowed on the boulevards. A rabbit would have had hard
work getting through in a hurry from the Madeleine to the Bastille, so
compact was the crowd. In all this fun and gaiety I did not see a fight
or a drunken man, and I observed the show as long as it lasted. It
began on Sunday, when a procession of students started from the
Sorbonne and marched across the Seine, a somewhat disappointing
cavalcade in length but which, nevertheless, half of Paris turned out
to see and applaud.
The carnival reached its height on Tuesday and in the early hours of
Wednesday morning.
There were _bal masqués_ galore, for nearly every one had dressed for
them in the morning.
At the Bullier, the Gay Tivoli, and the Moulin de la Galette, carnival
reigned supreme.
At the Bal Bullier one had to take more than a passing glance to tell
the boys from the girls, for the Mimis and Fantines had often tucked up
their hair and donned sailors’ clothes or a Tuxedo. Others went in
scantier attire and were more distinguishable. There were feminine
Méphistos, Spanish dancers, little brunettes as bullfighters, and
blondes as Oriental favorites of the harem. When the ball was over,
this motley crowd romped down to supper along the “Boul Mich” in their
fantastic clothes, and had _Marennes vertes_ and cold champagne and
beer and sandwiches in the hostelries of the Quartier Latin.
But all this was only a slice in the carnival pie, for Montmartre was a
bedlam, and the boulevards were still packed and as jolly as they had
been when I crossed that thoroughfare on the top of a bus and saw a
surging sea of color. Such screaming and cheering I have never seen
elsewhere.
Clowns were everywhere, acrobats did flip-flaps from the sand bins
along the route of the Metropolitan, street bands blared away from the
_terrasses_ of the cafés, sidewalk venders did a thriving trade in
confetti, sold in paper bags, which were warranted to hold a true kilo.
Later some of these confetti hawkers began replenishing their stock
from the sidewalk where it could literally be gathered by the shovelful.
All this happened a day ago; before noon Wednesday, Paris had been
swept as clean as a whistle.
Alas! the famous Bal Masqué de l’Opéra is no more in its splendor.
The _bal masqué_ to which once upon a time all of gay Paris went in
domino and mask is now filled by the daughters of _concierges_, by
barbers and jockeys and a general riff-raff, most of whom have entered
by billets of favor. Besides these there are a few dominoed ladies in
the boxes who may once have graced the ball in the old days, and now
and then a pretty woman in black silk tights passes through the foyer,
and is ogled by the remnant of the aged _roués_ who stroll about
comparing the present with the glitter and beauty of the Opéra ball
when it was one of the sights of the world, frequented by the most
celebrated and beautiful of women. All this has gone; the crowd is
motley, noisy and common. The leading feature at the Opéra ball this
year was the cake-walk, over which all Paris has suddenly gone mad.
It is an amusing sight to see the Parisian dance it; he forms his ideas
of the cake-walk mostly from some of the exaggerated illustrations
published in the London journals, and combines these with a touch of
plantation grace taken from the steel engravings out of a French
history of early Alabama.
I know a celebrated French ballet master who has had his hands full
training Parisians in the art of cake-walking. As a _maître de ballet_
there is none better to be found, but his ideas upon the innate grace
of “Syncopated Sandy” are somewhat vague.
[Illustration]
Chapter Nine
IN PARISIAN WATERS
Madame Thérèse Baudière’s brown eyes and the pink-and-white freshness
of her skin are in charming contrast to her gray hair, which she wears
in the coiffure of a certain marquise of a century ago. Sometimes on
fête days, madame encircles her white throat with a black velvet
ribbon. Upon these occasions, she mostly resembles the Watteau-like
marquise whose portrait hangs in the inn adjoining Madame Baudière’s
garden. A seasoned old hostelry is the inn, famous for its vintages and
its sauces, both of which go far toward cheering the stranger who comes
to Poissy.
This quaint town upon the bank of the Seine would be a drowsy little
hamlet indeed were it not so close to Paris that its cobbled streets
are filled on Sundays and holidays with _tuff-tuffs_ and formidable red
racers, which rattle and roar in their endeavor to stand still long
enough to deposit their dust-begrimed occupants at the door of Monsieur
Dalaison’s inn, the Esturgeon. For it is quite the thing for Parisians
to take their Sunday _déjeuner_ or _dîner_ at this hostelry.
When I first saw her, Madame Baudière was stepping out of the narrow
doorway of her bait shop and calling lustily to her garçon André, who
had reached the shore of a feathery green island just opposite, and who
upon hearing madame’s voice turned his boat about and bent his broad
back to his oars in haste to return.
“_Dépêchez-vous!_” cried madame, as he drew nearer. “Monsieur wishes
the big boat.”
“_Bien, madame, tout de suite_,” answered André, plunging the clumsy
blades into the glassy river which swings along past the island and
glides peacefully on its way down to Normandy and the sea.
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
THE ESTURGEON]
Opposite the inn, shored up against the piers of an ancient stone
bridge, framed in a clump of towering poplars, stands a cardboard box
of a house, its sides painted in imitation of brick. It looks like a
toy from which one could lift the gabled roof and find chocolates and
marrons in layers within.
[Illustration:
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
ONE OF THE FEATHERY ISLANDS]
Near by this bonbonnière, in the shade of the overhanging trees, a
gouty old gentleman beneath a green cotton umbrella watches intently a
tiny red quill floating midway up his line, altho it has given no
signal of alarm for hours.
A gentle breeze shirrs the surface of the water. The old gentleman
pours a little _vin ordinaire_ into a glass, rebaits his hook, and
lights a fresh cigar. Masses of white clouds overhead float in the
clear blue sky.
[Illustration:
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
A SLEEPY VILLAGE]
Just around the point of the island another boat is moored to two long
poles. In it a young man sits fishing; his sweetheart, who a night ago
had been dining at Maxime’s exquisitely gowned, is now by his side in a
calico wrapper and a straw garden-hat, the brim of which is pulled down
until all that remains visible of her face is the tip of her
_retroussé_ nose, her rosebud mouth and her adorable dimpled chin.
Shouts and shrieks of laughter come from other boats tied along this
quiet stretch of the river.
Tiny villas, their gardens gay in geraniums, skirt the edge of the
stream, where on little wharves sheltered by awnings other Parisians
spend the day a fishing. On one of these an old lady in a black silk
dress reclines in an armchair, her fishing-rod thrust in a convenient
rest, while she occupies herself with her fancy work, talking at
intervals to her husband, a dapper little man in a white waistcoat. The
family butler has just brought him a fresh pailful of bait, the first
supply having been exhausted in the capture of two diminutive
_goujons_, a delicate little fish playing an important part in every
_friture_ along the Seine. It is served like whitebait, crisp and
garnished with watercress and lemon. Opposite my own boat there is
another villa half hidden in the tangle of a pretty garden full of
roses.
[Illustration:
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
THE QUIET STRETCH]
Here a flat barge is moored to the bank, and in it three people are
fishing. In the bow sits a genial clean-shaven old gentleman, a
celebrated actor, whose red cravat is reflected in the water by a
wiggling scarlet spiral. In the middle of the barge is seated
Mademoiselle Yvette, of the Bouffes Parisiennes. Her cork has just
disappeared with the rush of a foolish _goujon_, and is straightway
pulled up, amid screams from the excited demoiselle, with a jerk
sufficient to land a whale. At her side a man of thirty-five,
sunburned, well-built and immaculate in white flannels, is extricating
the unfortunate _goujon_ from the tangled hook and line.
“_Oh! c’est beau! n’est-ce pas, Jacques?_” cries Yvette, clapping her
hands.
“_Oui, oui, ma petite_,” returns Jacques, happy over her delight.
“_Et toi, chéri_,” laughs Yvette, consolingly, “_tu n’as encore rien
attrappé, ça ne fait rien, je te donnerai le mien_.”
The old gentleman with the scarlet tie rises and bows majestically to
Yvette in recognition of her skill.
A short pantomime follows, in which these two _bons garçons_ present
her with a wreath of honor made of leaves gathered from the bank.
“_Ah! mes enfants_,” cries Yvette, “you are always so good to me!” and
she kisses the old gentleman in quite a fatherly way on both cheeks and
gives her beloved Jacques a little hug of delight. Then all three
return seriously to their fishing.
[Illustration: ENTHUSIASTS]
Now the shutters of an upper window of the villa open and the blond
head of Suzanne is thrust out in greeting.
“_Bonjour, mes enfants!_” she calls cheerily to the three.
“_Ah! ah! Oh! oh! tiens!_ it is really you at last!” cry the
industrious ones.
“Oh! you lazy girl,” shouts Jacques.
“_Bonjour_,” adds the old gentleman in mock sarcasm. “It is a pity you
are so confoundedly lazy that you can not give us the honor of your
gracious company! A fine fisherwoman you, who swore last night by
Psyche you would be up before the sun had crept over yonder hillock and
kissed the river with its rays!”
“_Tout à l’heure, mon vieux_,” returns Suzanne, with a rippling laugh.
“The day is yet young; _au revoir, mes enfants_.” And Suzanne,
extricating one dimpled elbow from her _peignoir_, blows the three
enthusiasts a kiss and closes the shutters.
“Ingrate!” cry all three.
“Eh! do you hear?” roars Jacques, “we have Chambertin for lunch—you
shall not have a drop.”
“_Dormeuse!_” shouts Yvette. “You shall not see Gaston when he comes,
or even the tail of my beautiful _goujon_!”
“Enough,” thunders the old gentleman, melodramatically, “you shall not
leave your boudoir, not even tho the populace cry ‘The Queen! the
Queen! let us see the Queen!’ Consider it henceforth as your dungeon. I
have given orders to the guards without.” The shutters open half way.
[Illustration: AN HABITUÉ]
“Has anyone caught anything!” ventures shyly the owner of the shower of
golden hair.
“One!” savagely reply the others.
“Who caught it?” comes excitedly from the window.
“Yvette!”
“Bravo!” applauds Suzanne. “I am coming down!” And she does, making her
way through the roses. Her exquisite hair is twisted in a hurried coil.
The voluminous sleeves of her _peignoir_ reveal her pretty bare arms as
she runs. The next instant Suzanne is in the barge fishing with the
rest.
Bees drone lazily over the flowers in the tiny garden; the river
flashes in the warm sun; a _carillon_ of bells from a breezy belfry on
the hillside strikes noon, and the four enthusiasts pull up their lines
and go to _déjeuner_.
A table in the garden is laid for eight. Marie, Suzanne’s bonne, is
drying the salad vigorously in its wire cage. In a cool corner the
cobwebbed bottles of Chambertin sleep in their baskets.
[Illustration: THE OLD BRIDGE]
The train has brought Gaston and his friend, a young officer. An
automobile growls and sputters up the villa with the leading villain of
a Parisian theater, a man full of kindly good humor, accompanied by a
graceful woman with jet-black hair, a _danseuse_. It is Tuesday, there
is no matinée and every one is happy.
And how gay they are! how full of spirit and rollicking camaraderie!
How many toasts are drank, how many clever songs are sung during the
whole of this bohemian breakfast! The officer and Jacques move the
short upright piano close to the table. Suzanne, now the pink of
neatness, with a little laugh mounts a chair, raises her glass through
which the light glints as golden as her hair, and sings the aria from
Charpentier’s “Louise.” The small company are silent in ecstasy under
the spell of her mellow voice. The lines of smoke rising from the
cigarettes seem like fires of incense burning in adoration of this
fascinating little goddess whose golden heart has made her a rare good
comrade.
And so with song and story the _déjeuner_ ends. There is no more
fishing. Yvette and Jacques go for a walk; the _danseuse_ and the
villain start in their _tuff-tuff_ back to Paris; the old gentleman
with the scarlet tie takes a nap; Suzanne and Gaston row down the
river, and the officer returns to his barracks. Only when the moon
floods the garden with its light do the lovers return. In the garden
the roses pale in the glow of candles from the windows of the villa,
nodding their heads sleepily in the night breeze. A bat zigzags over
the tops of the hollyhocks; two little birds high up in the tree peep
their last good-night. Dinner is at eight.
[Illustration: A PICNIC PARTY]
Past this rural paradise the silent river glides and tells no tales.
I pulled up my anchor and rowed back to the inn. The villa with its
happy day had fascinated me.
There must be hundreds of others like it along the Seine, I argued.
That night I made up my mind to take a trip in a rowboat down to Rouen.
I was warned, by my good landlord of the inn, that such a voyage would
be fraught with untold hardships and danger.
“And in what way?” I asked.
“Ah! monsieur, there are the locks, and, when the wind blows, the river
gets very rough. Monsieur should take a brave and strong _marin_ with
him to make such a journey.”
“Have you ever been down the Seine?”
“Only once, monsieur, on a canal-boat with my brother-in-law to Mantes,
where he became cook to a famous hostelry. It was he who came yesterday
and made the sauce to the sole you have just eaten.”
I bowed my compliments. If his seamanship was as good as his cooking,
the brother-in-law could have commanded a man-of-war.