PETTY TRADES.
Petty Trades--Their Origins--The Day-Banker--The Guardian Angel--The
Old-Clothesman--The Claque--Its First Beginning and Development.
The police of Paris are very strict in suppressing those trades
bordering upon mendicancy, which in London are somewhat freely allowed.
Many of the former hawkers of inexpensive trifles have been permanently
swept away from the streets of Paris.
The Galileo of the Place Vendôme, however, is still permitted to carry
on his business. As soon as the gas is alight, this personage, somewhat
fantastically dressed, levels his telescope, after having traced in
chalk on the pavement a picture of the moon, with its mountains,
ravines, and so forth. In consideration of a slight recognition, varying
from 25 to 50 centimes, he shows his clients all the astronomical
phenomena, including some which have escaped the notice of the
Observatory.
“Nearly all the petty industries not classed in the Dictionary of
Commerce are,” says a French writer, “the product of an imagination
over-excited by the gnawings of the stomach. The first person who picked
up, on the highway, a cigar-end, and then another and another, and who,
after chopping them all up, sold the results as smoking-tobacco, did not
deliberately adopt this profession in the same way that a person becomes
an administrator or a lawyer. It was the necessity of eating that
launched him into this career. Presently he held this argument, based
upon statistics:--Every day in Paris at least three hundred thousand
cigars are smoked. There must, therefore, be somewhere, and particularly
beneath the outdoor tables of the boulevard cafés, three hundred
thousand fag-ends. Thus the horizon opens to him. He perceives a
magnificent commercial enterprise and takes partners. A new kind of
manufacturer has now come into being: a manufacturer of unlicensed
tobacco.”
Apparently the commodity sells well; and in the retort of a pipe the
eclectic composition is as agreeable to the taste as the privileged
product of the imperial factories. Some of the contraband dealers in
cigar-ends have made a small fortune.
It was simply chance which created the “day-banker” or “banquier à la
journée.” Thirty or forty years ago an individual named Poildeloup,
living in the quarter of the markets, lent five francs one day to a
woman dealing in old clothes, on condition that she should return him
the same evening five francs ten centimes. She kept her word, and again
borrowed from him. Then other tradeswomen, also out of funds, applied to
Poildeloup, who at once saw what a profit he might derive from this
daily lending organised on a big scale. The two sous brought to him each
evening in excess of the five francs lent in the morning looked less
than nothing at first sight; but in fifty days the banker doubled his
capital, and in a few years had amassed wealth. Later on, rival banks
were established, which reduced the interest by half, charging only five
centimes a day on a hundred sous borrowed in the morning and returned at
night. These day-banks, content with half the interest charged by the
inventor of the business, still do an excellent trade.
One of the most interesting of the small professions is that of the
“guardian angel.” This ethereal personage conducts drunkards home to
their dwellings. Attached to every large Paris tavern is a guardian
angel, whose duty it is to escort any late-staying customer whose legs
decline their office, and who needs a guide. He must not quit the person
entrusted to his charge until the latter is out of the reach of thieves
and safely installed in his own house. The chief quality requisite in
this angel is sobriety.
We were speaking just now of the man who collects cigar-ends. Another
curious picker-up of unconsidered trifles is the man who is always on
the look-out for crusts of bread. A crust of bread is found in all sorts
of places: in the street, at the corners of lanes and alleys, on heaps
of rubbish. Do not imagine that this man, on the hunt for hard, dirty,
disgusting pieces of bread, has fallen so low as to be obliged to live
on the fruits of his discoveries. He is the sort of person who believes
firmly that nothing in this world is lost, and that one morsel of dry
bread, added to another, may be the beginning of a sack of fragments
which he will be able to sell for some twenty sous to breeders of
rabbits. The rabbit, beloved by the frequenters of barrier-taverns, does
not feed on grain and cabbage alone. It also eats a good quantity of
bread. It is in order to procure it this article of diet that the trade
of crust-collector was invented.
Of the ragpicker mention has been made elsewhere. He is essentially
eclectic in his tastes: rags, paper, gloves, glass, broken toys, the
necks of bottles, nothing comes amiss to him. He puts into the basket he
carries on his shoulder whatever he can find. It is the _trieur_ or
sorter whom the classification of the different objects concerns.
[Illustration: OLD-CLOTHES DEALER.]
Another petty trade which should not be forgotten is that of the
old-clothesman, who is seen everywhere early in the morning uttering his
piercing and well-known cry. He is above all to be met with in the
districts where young men abound: in the environs, that is to say, of
the School of Law and of the School of Medicine. The old-clothesman is
of all the gutter-merchants the most cunning and the most merciless. He
wanders around the abodes of the students, knowing well the time when
they will probably find it necessary to ease themselves of a portion of
their wardrobe. It is, above all, when the Carnival is going on that he
does good business. The allowance from home being insufficient for the
cost of the masked ball, with its concomitant expenses, he realises
money by the sale, now of a light overcoat, now of some other summer
garment which can be dispensed with in the depths of winter. If the
old-clothesman is waiting for the student, the student is on the
look-out for the old-clothesman. The latter enters and the bargaining is
at once begun. Whatever the dealer may offer, it is sure, after some
haggling as if for form’s sake, to be accepted. Having made his
purchase, the old-clothesman hastens with the clothes he has bought for
a mere nothing from an improvident student in order to sell them at a
moderate rate to a provident one. A story is told of two students, of
about the same height and figure, who after a time found that their
clothes passed from one to the other, the middleman in the shape of the
old-clothesman taking on each transaction his own particular profit. It
struck them that the middleman might as well be suppressed; and from
that time forward Jules, when he was hard up, sold his clothes to
Anatole, while Anatole, when he in his turn fell into an impecunious
position, sold them back again to Jules.
[Illustration: LE DÉBARCADÈRE DES BATEAUX-OMNIBUS: VENDORS OF
REFRESHMENTS.]
In the Temple, which gives its name to one of the lower boulevards,
there was formerly a market for all kinds of antiquities, including old
clothes; while buying and selling of a like character was carried on
until a later period in the Marché des Patriarches. Here, even now, the
lovers of the economical may provide themselves with shoes at a franc,
and boots at three francs and a half.
There are other petty trades at Paris, such as that of the bird-catcher
and the pigeon-fancier.
Nor must the sellers of violets at one sou the bunch be forgotten;
though they are not to be confounded with the bouquetière in a far more
fashionable walk of life. The dealers in groundsel, too, have a trade of
their own.
* * * * *
There are many institutions, professions, and classes which, after being
originated on the left bank, have crossed the water to flourish on the
right. Among these must be included the _claque_; though, from whatever
quarter it may have sprung, there is now no theatrical district in Paris
where it does not thrive.
It originated at the Comédie Française, when that institution had its
abode at the theatre now known as the Odéon, where, among other
masterpieces, Beaumarchais’s _Marriage of Figaro_ was produced in 1784.
Mercier pointed out, about this time, that the masterpiece in question
had no need of organised applause. This preconcerted clapping of hands,
varied by the stamping of feet and by walking-sticks, had a very bad
effect on the taste and temper of the public, and even, at times, on the
fortune of a piece. “They clap when the actor appears on the stage; they
clap for the author at the end of the play; they clap for the composer,
and make more noise than all the instruments of Gluck’s orchestra, which
can no longer be heard. This perpetual noise, this artificial
excitement, degrades the public taste. An author who was constantly
hissed was once advised to construct a machine which would imitate the
sound of three or four hundred persons clapping their hands, and to
place it in a corner of the theatre under the guidance of some
intelligent and devoted friend.”
Another writer on the same subject, M. Prudhomme, tells us in his
“Historical and Critical Mirror of Old and New Paris” (1807) that he had
once been acquainted with a man who had no means of living but by
assisting at first representations. Placed in the middle of the pit, he
called attention to the beauties of the piece and led the applause. The
name of “Monsieur Claque” had been given to him, and he had hands as
hard as the piece of wood with which washerwomen beat their linen. His
terms were thirty-six francs if the piece succeeded, and twelve francs
if it failed.
The claque, however, did not acquire its greatest importance until the
time of the Restoration. At an earlier period Dorat, a popular
drawing-room poet, or writer of _vers de société_, was in the habit of
sending persons to the theatre with a free-admission on the
understanding that they were to applaud his piece. By this stratagem he
managed to secure a run of several nights for more than one of his
works; but at each success he might have applied to himself the
exclamation of Pyrrhus after the Battle of Asculum: “One more such
victory and I am ruined.”
Dorat did, indeed, ruin himself at the game he is said to have invented;
but his invention was not lost to posterity. The claque, however, did
not work, in these comparatively primitive days, as an organised body.
There was a certain Chevalier de la Morlière, a retired musketeer, who
undertook the criticism of all new pieces, and offered to dramatic
authors his support or his condemnation. His terms were moderate. A few
dinners, a few louis, lent without any fixed term of repayment, a little
commission on the pit tickets that passed through his hands: that was
all he asked. He had volunteers and paid agents equally at his disposal,
the former acting under his advice, the latter at his command. The
Chevalier de la Morlière placed himself, moreover, at the service of
débutants and débutantes, or rather he imposed his services upon them.
One day he took it into his head to become a dramatic author, arguing
with himself that after ensuring the success of so many works by others
he could do the same for a work of his own. But though he now surpassed
himself in the ingenuity of his manœuvres, the work he produced did
not succeed. Thereupon he lost all credit. The authors and actors
resolved to do without him. His sceptre fell, but only to be taken from
time to time by others. Up to this time the claque, as before said, was
the work of enterprising individuals who organised it on certain
occasions, but not continuously as a permanent institution. Figaro, in
Beaumarchais’s comedy, speaks of the play he had written, and goes on to
say: “I really cannot understand how it was that I did not obtain the
greatest success; for I had filled the pit with excellent workmen, whose
hands were like wood.”
The organisation of the claque, as a permanent institution, dates from
the time of Napoleon I., and seems to have had for its starting-point
the famous rivalry between Mlle. Duchénois and Mlle. Georges. When the
struggle between the two tragic actresses came to an end, the forces
organised in their service declined to be disbanded. They elected their
chiefs, and the leaders treated with managers and authors for regular
support. People were still found who would applaud a favourite actor or
actress from enthusiasm, duly stimulated by a gratuitous ticket. Thus at
one time the whole atelier of David served as claque to an actress much
admired by the painter and his pupils, who without support and
encouragement might have been crushed, it was thought, by the growing
talent and popularity of Mlle. Mars. The claque of David’s atelier was a
formidable one, for the great artist had from sixty to eighty students
attached to him. This was in 1810, a year or two after the publication
of the “Historical and Critical Mirror of Old and New Paris” previously
referred to.
Under the Restoration the claque was a regular institution. The quarrels
of the Romanticists and Classicists lent it a considerable importance.
Impartial in its tastes, it served, turn by turn, and with the same
zeal, the “Antony” of the modern drama and the Greek heroines of ancient
tragedy. Since 1830 its authority has been universally accepted. Several
directors, after trying to dispense with it, have been obliged to
conciliate it and accept its conditions--for when the directors have
driven it from their house, it has always been brought back by the
vanity of the comedians. One alone of the Paris theatres preserved
itself from the claque. This was the now defunct Théâtre Italien; though
people say of this house that if it had not a _claque_ it had a
_clique_.
With the exception of the last-named, all the theatres of Paris have for
years past had organised claques, that of the Opéra being the best
disciplined. The chiefs of the claques give themselves the title of
“undertakers of dramatic successes.” They do not receive a subvention
from the “directors,” but a certain number of places each night, which
they sell for their own benefit. It is not from the tickets, however,
that they derive the bulk of their gains. Some of them make twenty or
thirty thousand francs a year; but they derive this from the vanity of
the actors, who pay them proportionately to the degree of applause
required.
The claque consists of the chief and a number of assistants, generally
poor wretches with a passion for the theatre, some of whom are admitted
free on condition of contributing as much applause as necessary, while
others are admitted simply at a reduced price. The chief attends the
rehearsals, and notes the scenes, passages, or phrases which seem most
effective. Then he revises his notes by watching the effect of the first
performance on the public. After that he knows each precise point at
which to come in with his applause; and if the piece is played for a
year, the laughter and tears occur at the same given moments. He employs
great tact in choosing men, and even women, for his purpose, the fair
sex being the best counterfeiters of convulsive emotion. When,
therefore, a drama is produced at Paris, a number of lady weepers are
distributed amongst the audience, many of them being the devoted wives
of male members of the claque. So soon as the old man of the piece
recovers his unfortunate daughter, and exclaims, “My darling! Saved!”
the lady weepers plunge their faces into their handkerchiefs and sob
like children. The thing becomes contagious. The whole female portion of
the audience are now, perhaps, like Niobe, all tears, and the newspapers
next day declare that the performance was a _succès de larmes_.
Doubtless this charlatanism has its comic side. But it is repulsive at
the same time; for falsehood is the foundation of the system, and, as M.
Eugène Despois says: “It is sad to see men almost exclusively occupied
in lying reciprocally. People say that it is only life, that you must
conform to it, and that it imposes on no one. ‘Who is deceived? Everyone
agrees to the system,’ they argue. That is true. No one is duped; but of
what use is all this comedy? After all, of the two parts, that played by
the _claqueurs_, often with spirit, to dupe the public, and that played
by the public who submit to this impudent mystification and daily
pretend to be duped, the most shameful is that of the public.”
Of recent years the claque has been made the object of some very lively
attacks by writers who understand the dignity of their profession. A
certain number of dramatic authors, Émile Augier and Dumas the younger
amongst others, have frequently endeavoured to dispense with its
mercenary plaudits; but it must be owned that the vanity of a large
proportion of the actors, and in particular of the actresses, has
frustrated the reform. In the meantime, ere the theatre world has
awakened to the dishonourable character of the claque system, the
claqueurs grow fat, and in some cases possess their town and country
residences. It is true that not everyone can be a chief of the claque;
to conquer, or rather to purchase, that important post, a great deal of
money is required. Auguste, formerly chief of the claque at the Opéra,
paid 80,000 francs for his position, but in a few years he had made his
fortune. “More than one well-established dancer paid him a pension,”
says Dr. Véron. “The début of each artist brought him a gratuity
proportionate to the artist’s pretensions. Towards the end of an
engagement and the moment of its renewal more than one singer or actor,
in order to deceive at once the public and the director, goes to the
Auguste of his theatre and offers him a bag of gold to produce such a
paroxysm of applause as shall result in a large increase of salary. Such
are the traps laid for the director; and into these traps, shrewd as he
may be, he sometimes inevitably falls.”
Dr. Véron, an experienced impresario, is far from denouncing the claque,
which, according to him, has a mission. “All who expose themselves to
be judged by the public, need,” he says, “for the animation of their
courage, that fever of joy which applause produces in them.” That was
also the opinion of Talma, who found the public too slow to take the
initiative. “The claque,” says Elleviou, “is as necessary in the centre
of the pit as the chandelier in the centre of a drawing-room.”
The question has often been raised as to whether not only the claque but
even spontaneous applause should not be suppressed. The spectator,
abandoned to the power of the illusion, is displeased to find himself
disturbed by unexpected noise, which, tearing him from Athens or from
Rome, reminds him that he is on the benches of a Paris playhouse.
Several chiefs of claques have become celebrities, or at least
notorieties; with two gentlemen named Santon and Porcher among the
number. One of these “knights of the chandelier,” as they are familiarly
called, has published his reminiscences, entitled, “Memoirs of a
Claqueur, containing the theory and practice of the art of obtaining
success, by Robert (Castel), formerly chief of the Dramatic Insurance
Company, Paris, 1829.”
Different opinions are entertained in theatrical circles as to the
utility of the claque, some contending that it is indispensable, while
others take a higher view, and hold that the work represented and the
actors representing it may advantageously be allowed to stand upon their
own merits. Meanwhile, apart from the claque maintained at all the Paris
theatres by the management, there are often special claques which are
paid by leading members of the company, jealous of one another’s
reputation. This is looked upon by the company generally as unfair, and
the practice is never avowed. Even in London, especially (if not
exclusively) at the opera, a number of energetic men may sometimes be
seen--and, above all, heard--working together with a view to the success
of some particular “artist.” The claqueurs--at least, at the opera--are
usually Italians, from the shops of the Italian wine merchants and
dealers in macaroni, vermicelli, truffles, and olives in the
neighbourhood of Soho. Wagner is known to have been absolutely opposed
not only to the claque but to the most legitimate bursts of applause.
The frame of mind in which to enjoy beautiful music should not, indeed,
be broken in upon by disturbances from the outside. Not only in Germany,
but wherever Wagner is played, the claque is, for the occasion,
dispensed with. Even at the Grand Opéra of Paris there was no claque
when _Lohengrin_ was performed; and it may be that if a representation
is witnessed in absolute silence from the beginning to the end of each
act, the applause is more enthusiastic when at last the moment for
plaudits arrives.
In opposition to what takes place at Wagnerian performances wherever
given, it may be mentioned that at the dramatic theatres of Paris, as at
the lyrical theatres of Italy (when Wagner is not being played), the
leading performers are not only applauded, but walk forward and bow
their acknowledgment of the applause at the end of any effective scene
in which they may have pleased the public, or perhaps only the claque.
This destroys all verisimilitude. The singer is applauded as Violetta or
as Adrienne Lecouvreur, and acknowledges the applause in the character
of Mme. Adelina Patti or of Mme. Sarah Bernhardt.
But whatever may be said against it, the claque is great and, in France
at least, will prevail. Nor can it be denied that in some instances and
on some individuals it imposes opinions which but for its authority
would not be accepted. There is an old fable of a man who, standing in a
market-place, was approached by a man leading a pig. “Do you want to buy
this sheep?” asked the proprietor of the animal. “It is a pig,” was the
reply. “Nothing of the kind; I can assure you your eyes deceive you,”
returned the salesman. At that moment a third person came up, and,
looking at the quadruped, said to its owner, “How much do you want for
that sheep?” The man to whom it had first been offered stared with
surprise, and supposed that the third person was out of his mind; but
when a fourth, fifth, and sixth person had come up and likewise demanded
the price of that “sheep,” he came to the conclusion that his own eyes
must be at fault, and bought the animal as mutton.
The business of the claque is to pass off a theatrical pig as a
theatrical sheep--and it sometimes succeeds.