REAL PARIS SHOWS
For many years the old expression that we can't get rid of, "the Salon,"
has been a misnomer. There are five Salons, and, as going to see the
season's pictures and statues is a form of amusement and distraction in
Paris on a par with theatrical productions, all five are equally
important. Even if one desires to judge by the standard of art,
establishing categories of excellence and importance is impossible. The
longer one lives in Paris, the more one realizes the absolute lack of
criteria in judging artistic achievement. Painters and sculptors, poets
and playwrights and authors, singers and actors do not acknowledge the
existence of the jury of public opinion, much less newspaper critics,
art juries, _premiers prix_, medals, and organizations. Schools are
legion: standards are the taste and liking of the individual. So we let
those who claim temperament and genius have their chance, and we go to
the five Salons with equal zest, just as we look constantly for lights
under a bushel to please us far from the Académie Française and other
bodies of the Institut. In June the two "regular" Salons exhibit
separately, although simultaneously, in the Grand Palais. There is an
autumn Salon of the progressives. The humorists and cartoonists have
their own Salon. Last, but not least (in numbers!) the independents
exhibit what they please in wooden buildings erected on Cours-la-Reine.
On a late June afternoon in 1914, I stood on the steps of the Grand
Palais, after an afternoon in the two big Salons--I mean to say
principal Salons--no, in order to escape criticism let me put it "most
universally accepted as important" Salons. It was raining hard. I never
saw the water come down in sheets the way it did that afternoon. Cabs
were of course unobtainable. The wind made umbrellas no protection. And
I was wearing my best frock. What a bother! Hundreds waited as I did,
preferring the additional fatigue of standing herded almost to
suffocation to spoiling their clothes. Suddenly, the rumor spread of a
flood, a flood as disastrous as 1910. Only this time the water came from
above. So heavy was the rainfall that sewers were bursting and new
excavations for subway extension were caving in. Enterprising newsboys
brought us the evening papers with scare headlines. Not far from where
we were an hour earlier choirboys, going home from practice, were
swallowed up in the earth in front of Saint-Philippe-de-Roule. A
taxi-cab hurrying along the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré disappeared.
The earth opened up under a newspaper _kiosque_ and a shoe store at the
corner of the Boulevard Haussmann and the Rue du Havre. _Eboulements_
everywhere. The Place de l'Alma was a gaping hole, tramway tracks and
pavements falling into the new subway station.
[Illustration: Hôtel de Ville from the Pont d'Arcole]
My mind went back to the dark week of 1910, which I have just described.
Comments of the Salon crowd were identical in reaction to those we heard
after the flood. "Outrageous, the _incurie_ of the municipal
authorities! Something should be done to protect us against this
constant digging. Why, it won't be safe to stick your nose out of doors.
These awful accidents--in Paris, mind you! Something _must_ be done!"
For an hour it went on like that. Then the storm stopped. The sun, still
high at six in June, broke through the clouds. The wind died down. I
started up to the Champs-Elysées with the crowd. More newsboys! This
time the principal headline announced the trial of Madame Caillaux. The
Parisians--and I with them--went down into the Métro. An hour ago such a
risky undertaking would have caused us to shudder with horror. No more
underground for us! As I waited in line for my ticket, the man in front
of me said to his wife, "Now do you really think that Madame Caillaux--"
I laughed to myself. The Medes and Persians boasted of not changing
their laws. The Parisians could boast of not changing their mentality. A
danger over is a danger forgotten. Hurrah for the new sensation! My
readers may think me guilty of skipping suddenly backwards and forwards
in this book from one thing to something entirely different. But
remember that I am writing in Paris and about Paris. Paris is like that.
I went forward to 1914 to get an illustration for 1910. The very day
after we were sure the flood was going down, we lost interest in the
Seine. Our great project of an emergency channel for turning the Seine
at flood-time died in twenty-four hours and will not be revived until
Paris is actually being once more submerged. _Actualité_ is a word for
which we Anglo-Saxons have no equivalent. It means the
thing-of-the-moment-which-is-of-prime-interest. And the press can create
a new _actualité_ overnight.
The Government did this several times during the war in order to relieve
a tense internal political situation. During the last German drive we
had the affair of the false Rodins, and we turned to read about the new
statue exposed as a fake each day before we looked for the new German
advance. When the Clemenceau Cabinet was threatened, a twentieth-century
Bluebeard, with the police daily discovering new wives, was dished up to
us every morning in all the papers.
Back in 1910 we turned from the flood to _Chantecler_. After seven years
of heralding and "puffing," after many mysterious delays that whetted
the appetite, the management of the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin
announced that the curiosity of Paris would be rewarded at the end of
January. The flood was the last postponement. The waters had hardly
begun to recede before public interest was again centred upon
_Chantecler_. When the _répetition générale_ was given on February
sixth, oldest inhabitants and historians of the French theatre were
agreed that not even Hernani nor yet _Le Mariage de Figaro_ had created
so universal an anticipatory interest. Was _Chantecler_ merely an
eccentric literary endeavor or was it to prove a practical theatrical
venture? More than any living writer Rostand had been able to win for
his plays recognition as literature and recognition as "money-winners"
in the theatres of foreign countries as well as his own.
Looking back over a decade I may be wrong in comparing a past with a
present event. But I honestly believe that there was far more interest
in Paris in what was going on at the Porte-Saint-Martin on the evening
of February 6, 1910, than in what took place at Versailles on the
afternoon of June 28, 1919. Interest was lost in the Treaty of
Versailles before it was signed. _Chantecler_ had a fighting chance to
succeed. Just as the curtain started to rise before the cream of French
literary and theatrical circles there was a cry of "_Pas encore!_" M.
Jean Coquelin sprang up from the prompter's box in conventional evening
dress. Was there to be another postponement--a fiasco in the presence of
the invited guests? No: for M. Coquelin began to recite a prologue,
inimitably phrased. He told the audience that they were to be introduced
to a barnyard as soon as the farmer's family had gone. It was Sunday
afternoon, and when the chores were finished, the animals would be left
to themselves. As he spoke, numerous illustrative sounds came from the
stage. We heard the young girls going off with a song on their lips, the
wheels of a receding carriage, the bells of the village church, and
shots of hunters out for their Sunday sport. Then M. Coquelin
disappeared, and the curtain went up.
The first two acts were wildly received. The third act was too long and
modernisms marred the beauty of the verse. The lyrical continuity of the
play was broken by the introduction of a purely satirical effect. The
real reason for lack of sustained interest was the mental confusion and
weariness of having to imagine the actors as animals. The human mind is
incapable of receiving through the sense of vision a representation of
the unreal, where the real is at the same time glaringly evident, and
keep clear, harmonious, concordant images. No ingenuity could make an
actor's figure like a bird's. And then humans do not differ in size like
birds. There was no way of approximating widely different proportions of
the rooster, the black-bird, the pheasant and the nightingale.
In watching _Chantecler_ I had the same painful impression of how we are
handicapped by the multiplicity of necessities we have created for
ourselves in modern days as I had in watching the flood. Our evolution
has bound us fast with chains of our own forging. Physically and
mentally, we have manufactured so many props to lean upon that we can no
longer stand on our own feet. _Chantecler_ cannot be compared with the
animal plays of Aristophanes for in Greek drama there was no attempt to
present to the spectators a visual image in harmony with the audile
image. Nor even in Shakespeare's time was the dramatist limited by the
difficulties of a _mise en scène_. A Midsummer Night's Dream was an
easier proposition for the Elizabethan actor than for Sir Herbert
Beerbohm Tree, despite the properties of Her Majesty's Theatre, the
hidden orchestra playing Mendelssohn's music, and the magic aerial
ballets.
Our next "real show" was the political campaign for the new Chamber of
Deputies that was to inaugurate the fifth decade of the Third Republic
on June first. Herbert spent an inordinate amount of time, I thought, in
puzzling out the voting strength of the Ministerialist and Opposition
groups, and patiently wrote articles for American magazines about
Radical Socialists, Clemenceau and Caillaux, to vary his Turkish
articles. But whether he treated of French leaders and politics or of
Venizelos or of the Young Turks, his articles invariably came back with
a polite rejection slip. We put them away and sold them later, when they
were out of date, for more than we would have gotten then. Our money for
writing came from the _Herald_, and we realized that if you want to
make your living by writing the anchor to a newspaper is not lightly to
be weighed.
But though I was not even mildly interested in Radical Socialists,
Republicans of the Left, Independent Socialists, Progressists and what
not, I did like to go to political meetings. They were good for your
French and good for the opportunity of studying the influence of
politics upon the Latin character. How the French love meetings! They
use our English word instead of _réunion_, just as they always speak of
self-government. But they are not at all like us in politics. There are
as many parties as there are leaders, and their campaigns center around
personalities, not principles.
In 1910, the first round of the election was on April 24, and the final
round on May 8. It just happened that May first was a Sunday, and fell
between the two election Sundays. Throughout the Third Republic, Labor
Day has been a time of fear and trembling for the Paris _bourgeoisie_.
The Cabinet is always anxious on May first. You never can tell what is
going to happen when crowds gather in Paris: so the wise Government does
not allow trouble to be started. Encouraged by the success of their
Ferrer demonstration on the Boulevard de Clichy a few months before, the
revolutionary elements decided to make May Day a big event with the hope
of influencing the second round of the elections. Premier Briand decided
there would be no May Day parade. Believing that the Government would
not dare to come into conflict with them in the midst of their election
struggle, workingmen's unions plastered Paris with boastful posters
announcing a monster demonstration in the Bois de Bologne, followed by a
parade to the Place de la Concorde. This was in open defiance to the
law, which requires a permit for gatherings in the open air and for
parades. But M. Briand was equal to the occasion. Saturday night he
threw twenty thousand troops into Paris. They bivouacked in the Place de
la Concorde, the Place de l'Etoile, and in the Bois. I took Christine to
church. After the service, we went to the Bois for lunch. There were
troops on every road in the part of the Bois indicated in the posters as
the workingmen's rendez-vous. Here and there little tents with the Red
Cross flag were pitched, and to make the picture more impressive doctors
in white coats stood before the door. This scared the workingmen more
than the soldiers did. We saw many of them in their blue blouses. But
they took care not to stop or to walk in numbers.
The _bourgeoisie_ were able to rest easy. Assured that order would be
kept, fashionable Paris flocked in great numbers to the Longchamp races.
Of course we went, too. As Herbert had a story, he bought the best
seats. We were not far from President Fallières, and we saw the spring
fashions. Scrappie created as much of a sensation as some of the gowns.
People who frequent Longchamp are not in the habit of bringing babies
with them. But with me it is always, "love me, love my child."
The unions did not have good luck in the spring of 1910. But no more did
the clericals and monarchists. Hopes of a clerical reaction were
dissipated. Briand was as bitter against the orders as against the
unions. The royalists no longer count. We had many royalist friends.
Some we knew well enough to ask, "How goes the propaganda?" And they
knew us well enough to answer, "_Pas de blague! C'est à rire!_" "Stop
teasing me: it's a joke!" The Duke of Orleans has about as much chance
of being King of France as he has of being President of the United
States. In our estimates of political conditions are we not too apt to
judge France by her checkered past? There is no government in Europe
more assured of stability than the French Republic: and this was as true
in 1910 as it is in 1919.
Public lectures are a source of diversion to Parisians. We Americans
think that we are great on listening to ourselves and others talk. But
crowds in France do not need a political campaign, a religious revival
or a return from near the North Pole to come together for a lecture. The
most surprising topics, treated by men who are not in the public eye,
draw attentive and assiduous audiences. Every day you have a wealth of
choice in free lectures in Paris. Some newspapers publish the lecture
program of the day just as naturally as they publish the theatrical
offerings. At the Sorbonne, the Collège de France, the Ecole des
Hautes-Etudes, the Ecole des Sciences Politiques, the Ecole des Chartes,
the various Musées, and a host of other organizations offer single
lectures and courses of lectures, week days and Sundays, either free or
for a very slight fee. Many of the best courses in the various Facultés
of the University of Paris are open to the public. Just to give one
instance of popular interest in a rather technical subject, we used to
attend the courses in physical geography of Professor Brunhes at the
Collége de France. That year he was treating the formation of the
mountainous center of France. If you did not go early, your chances of a
seat were slim. There were always people standing thronged at the doors
way out into the hall. This was not unusual. Any man who knew his
subject and who could treat it with vigor and wit was sure of a _salle
comble_. His subject did not matter. One did not have to spend money:
free courses were as attractive as those for which a fee was charged. We
discovered that Parisians never cease going to school. One is accustomed
to see only young faces in the class-rooms of American universities. In
the Sorbonne and the Collège de France there are students from sixteen
to seventy.
If music is your passion, you can indulge it to the full in Paris. With
the Opéra and Opéra Comique and Opéra Municipal, there is something
that you really want to see every day, and when the music does not
particularly attract you, you can be sure of an excellent
_divertissement_, as the ballet spectacle is called. Parisians love
choregraphy. And there is choregraphy for all tastes and all moods.
Paris is the mother of the spectacle called _revue_. We have borrowed
the name but not the thing. No _revue_ can be successful in Paris unless
it possesses distinct quality in dances, costumes, _mise en scène_, and
especially in the dialogue. The _revue_ must reflect what Parisians are
thinking about, take into account _actualités_, and interpret the events
of the day. This means constant change in the dialogue, suppression of
old and introduction of new scenes, to the point where you can go to the
same _revue_ in the third month of its run and find something entirely
different as far as the lines go. For six months of the year the bands
of the Garde Républicaine and of the regiments stationed in Paris play
in the gardens and squares on Thursdays and Sundays. The Tuileries
offers from April to October open-air opera and concerts in the heart of
the city. You pay only for your chair.
The foreigner resident in Paris soon becomes aware that he does not have
to leave his own quarter to find a good evening's entertainment. Real
Paris shows are perhaps best to be found far from the Grands Boulevards,
Clichy and Montmartre. From the heights of superior opportunity one
does not want to look down upon the tourist and tell him that he doesn't
really see Paris. But the fact remains that when theatres and
music-halls and restaurants become rendezvous for foreigners they
insensibly lose their distinctive local atmosphere. They begin to cater
to the tourist trade and give their audiences what they come to see.
This is so true of the Folies-Bergère, the Casino de Paris and other
large music-halls that the program has become half English and the
actresses and choruses and clowns are as often of London as of Paris
origin. The same foreign invasion on the stage, following the invasion
in the audience, is to be found at the Ambassadeurs and Marigny on the
Champs-Elysées. Alas! even the Concert Mayol type of music-hall has
succumbed to the temptation of catering to the big world. English and
American "turns" are dragged in by the ears to enliven _revues_ for
those who do not understand French, and the spectacle has become a
totally un-Parisian jumble of vaudeville. But in the little music-halls
of the quarters one still finds the atmosphere that Parisians love and a
program offered to their taste. Herbert and I used to go to a theatre on
the Boulevard Saint-Germain, just off the Boulevard Saint-Michel, where
plays were typically Parisian. Another such theatre exists in the Rue de
la Gaité. In the same street are three music-halls that put on songs and
stage _revues_ for Parisians. There are probably a hundred theatres and
music-halls of this kind whose names do not appear in Baedeker, and
which have resisted successfully the first decade of cinema competition.
Last of all among real Paris shows the _foires_ must not be forgotten.
But I speak of these in another chapter because visiting them is a goal
for a _promenade_ and not the deliberate seeking of an evening's
entertainment. You take in a _foire_ as incidental to a walk, just as
your _apéritif_ or your after-dinner coffee is most often the price you
pay for a seat to watch the passing crowd, which, when all is said and
done, is the real Paris show.