Those who have not lived in France can form little idea of the important
place the _café_ occupies in the life of an average Frenchman, clubs as
we know them or as they exist in England being rare, and when found
being, with few exceptions, but gambling-houses in disguise. As a
Frenchman rarely asks an acquaintance, or even a friend, to his
apartment, the _café_ has become the common ground where all meet, for
business or pleasure. Not in Paris only, but all over France, in every
garrison town, provincial city, or tiny village, the _café_ is the chief
attraction, the centre of thought, the focus toward which all the rays of
masculine existence converge.
For the student, newly arrived from the provinces, to whose modest purse
the theatres and other places of amusement are practically closed, the
_café_ is a supreme resource. His mind is moulded, his ideas and
opinions formed, more by what he hears and sees there than by any other
influence. A restaurant is of little importance. One may eat anywhere.
But the choice of his _café_ will often give the bent to a young man’s
career, and indicate his exact shade of politics and his opinions on
literature, music, or art. In Paris, to know a man at all is to know
where you can find him at the hour of the _apéritif_—what Baudelaire
called
_L’heure sainte_
_De l’absinthe_.
When young men form a society among themselves, a _café_ is chosen as
their meeting-place. Thousands of establishments exist only by such
patronage, as, for example, the Café de la Régence, Place du Théâtre
Français, which is frequented entirely by men who play chess.
Business men transact their affairs as much over their coffee as in their
offices. The reading man finds at his _café_ the daily and weekly
papers; a writer is sure of the undisturbed possession of pen, ink, and
paper. Henri Murger, the author, when asked once why he continued to
patronize a certain establishment notorious for the inferior quality of
its beer, answered, “Yes, the beer is poor, but they keep such good
_ink_!”
The use of a _café_ does not imply any great expenditure, a
_consummation_ costing but little. With it is acquired the right to use
the establishment for an indefinite number of hours, the client being
warmed, lighted, and served. From five to seven, and again after dinner,
the _habitués_ stroll in, grouping themselves about the small tables,
each new-comer joining a congenial circle, ordering his drink, and
settling himself for a long sitting. The last editorial, the newest
picture, or the fall of a ministry is discussed with a vehemence and an
interest unknown to Anglo-Saxon natures. Suddenly, in the excitement of
the discussion, some one will rise in his place and begin speaking. If
you happen to drop in at that moment, the lady at the desk will welcome
you with, “You are just in time! Monsieur So-and-So is speaking; the
evening promises to be interesting.” She is charmed; her establishment
will shine with a reflected light, and new patrons be drawn there, if the
debates are brilliant. So universal is this custom that there is hardly
an orator to-day at the French bar or in the Senate, who has not broken
his first lance in some such obscure tournament, under the smiling
glances of the _dame du comptoir_.
Opposite the Palace of the Luxembourg, in the heart of the old Latin
Quarter, stands a quaint building, half hotel, half _café_, where many
years ago Joseph II. resided while visiting his sister, Marie Antoinette.
It is known now as Foyot’s; this name must awaken many happy memories in
the hearts of American students, for it was long their favorite
meeting-place. In the early seventies a club, formed among the literary
and poetic youth of Paris, selected Foyot’s as their “home” during the
winter months. Their summer vacations were spent in visiting the
university towns of France, reciting verses, or acting in original plays
at Nancy, Bordeaux, Lyons, or Caen. The enthusiasm these youthful
performances created inspired one of their number with the idea of
creating in Paris, on a permanent footing, a centre where a limited
public could meet the young poets of the day and hear them recite their
verses and monologues in an informal way.
The success of the original “Chat Noir,” the first _cabaret_ of this
kind, was largely owing to the sympathetic and attractive nature of its
founder, young Salis, who drew around him, by his sunny disposition, shy
personalities who, but for him, would still be “mute, inglorious
Miltons.” Under his kindly and discriminating rule many a successful
literary career has started. Salis’s gifted nature combined a delicate
taste and critical acumen with a rare business ability. His first
venture, an obscure little _café_ on the Boulevard Rochechouart, in the
outlying quarter beyond the Place Pigalle, quickly became famous, its
ever-increasing vogue forcing its happy proprietor to seek more
commodious quarters in the rue Victor Massé, where the world-famous “Chat
Noir” was installed with much pomp and many joyous ceremonies.
The old word _cabaret_, corresponding closely to our English “inn,” was
chosen, and the establishment decorated in imitation of a Louis XIII.
_hôtellerie_. Oaken beams supported the low-studded ceilings: The
plaster walls disappeared behind tapestries, armor, old _faïence_. Beer
and other liquids were served in quaint porcelain or pewter mugs, and the
waiters were dressed (merry anachronism) in the costume of members of the
Institute (the Immortal Forty), who had so long led poetry in chains.
The success of the “Black Cat” in her new quarters was immense, all Paris
crowding through her modest doors. Salis had founded Montmartre!—the
rugged old hill giving birth to a generation of writers and poets, and
nourishing this new school at her granite breasts.
It would be difficult to imagine a form of entertainment more tempting
than was offered in this picturesque inn. In addition to the first, the
entire second floor of the building had been thrown into one large room,
the walls covered with a thousand sketches, caricatures, and crayon
drawings by hands since celebrated the world over. A piano, with many
chairs and tables, completed the unpretending installation. Here, during
a couple of hours each evening, either by the piano or simply standing in
their places, the young poets gave utterance to the creations of their
imagination, the musicians played their latest inspirations, the
_raconteur_ told his newest story. They called each other and the better
known among the guests by their names, and joked mutual weaknesses,
eliminating from these gatherings every shade of a perfunctory
performance.
It is impossible to give an idea of the delicate flavor of such informal
evenings—the sensation of being at home that the picturesque surroundings
produced, the low murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, the swing
of the waltz movement played by a master hand, interrupted only when some
slender form would lean against the piano and pour forth burning words of
infinite pathos,—the inspired young face lighted up by the passion and
power of the lines. The burst of applause that his talent called forth
would hardly have died away before another figure would take the poet’s
place, a wave of laughter welcoming the new-comer, whose twinkling eyes
and demure smile promised a treat of fun and humor. So the evening would
wear gayly to its end, the younger element in the audience, full of the
future, drinking in long draughts of poetry and art, the elders charmed
to live over again the days of their youth and feel in touch once more
with the present.
In this world of routine and conventions an innovation as brilliantly
successful as this could hardly be inaugurated without raising a
whirlwind of jealousy and opposition. The struggle was long and arduous.
Directors of theatres and concert halls, furious to see a part of their
public tempted away, raised the cry of immorality against the new-comers,
and called to their aid every resource of law and chicanery. At the end
of the first year Salis found himself with over eight hundred summonses
and lawsuits on his hands. After having made every effort, knocked at
every door, in his struggle for existence, he finally conceived the happy
thought of appealing directly to Grévy, then President of the Republic,
and in his audience with the latter succeeded in charming and interesting
him, as he had so many others. The influence of the head of the state
once brought to bear on the affair, Salis had the joy of seeing
opposition crushed and the storm blow itself out.
From this moment, the poets, feeling themselves appreciated and their
rights acknowledged and defended, flocked to the “Sacred Mountain,” as
Montmartre began to be called; other establishments of the same character
sprang up in the neighborhood. Most important among these were the “4
z’Arts,” Boulevard de Clichy, the “Tambourin,” and La Butte.
Trombert, who, together with Fragerolle, Goudezki, and Marcel Lefèvre,
had just ended an artistic voyage in the south of France, opened the “4
z’Arts,” to which the novelty-loving public quickly found its way,
crowding to applaud Coquelin _cadet_, Fragson, and other budding
celebrities. It was here that the poets first had the idea of producing
a piece in which rival _cabarets_ were reviewed and laughingly
criticised. The success was beyond all precedent, in spite of the
difficulty of giving a play without a stage, without scenery or
accessories of any kind, the interest centring in the talent with which
the lines were declaimed by their authors, who next had the pleasant
thought of passing in review the different classes of popular songs,
Clovis Hugues, at the same time poet and statesman, discoursing on each
subject, and introducing the singer; Brittany local songs, Provençal
ballads, ant the half Spanish, half French _chansons_ of the Pyrenees
were sung or recited by local poets with the charm and abandon of their
distinctive races.
The great critics did not disdain to attend these informal gatherings,
nor to write columns of serious criticism on the subject in their papers.
At the hour when all Paris takes its _apéritif_ the “4 z’Arts” became the
meeting-place of the painters, poets, and writers of the day. Montmartre
gradually replaced the old Latin Quarter; it is there to-day that one
must seek for the gayety and humor, the pathos and the makeshifts of
Bohemia.
The “4 z’Arts,” next to the “Chat Noir,” has had the greatest influence
on the taste of our time,—the pleiad of poets that grouped themselves
around it in the beginning, dispersing later to form other centres,
which, in their turn, were to influence the minds and moods of thousands.
Another charming form of entertainment inaugurated by this group of men
is that of “shadow pictures,” conceived originally by Caran d’Ache, and
carried by him to a marvellous perfection. A medium-sized frame filled
with ground glass is suspended at one end of a room and surrounded by
sombre draperies. The room is darkened; against the luminous background
of the glass appear small black groups (shadows cast by figures cut out
of cardboard). These figures move, advancing and retreating, grouping or
separating themselves to the cadence of the poet’s verses, for which they
form the most original and striking illustrations. Entire poems are
given accompanied by these shadow pictures.
One of Caran d’Ache’s greatest successes in this line was an _Epopée de
Napoléon_,—the great Emperor appearing on foot and on horseback, the long
lines of his army passing before him in the foreground or small in the
distance. They stormed heights, cheered on by his presence, or formed
hollow squares to repulse the enemy. During their evolutions, the clear
voice of the poet rang out from the darkness with thrilling effect.
The nicest art is necessary to cut these little figures to the required
perfection. So great was the talent of their inventor that, when he gave
burlesques of the topics of the day, or presented the celebrities of the
hour to his public, each figure would be recognized with a burst of
delighted applause. The great Sarah was represented in poses of infinite
humor, surrounded by her menagerie or receiving the homage of the
universe. Political leaders, foreign sovereigns, social and operatic
stars, were made to pass before a laughing public. None were spared.
Paris went mad with delight at this new “art,” and for months it was
impossible to find a seat vacant in the hall.
At the Boite à Musique, the idea was further developed. By an ingenious
arrangement of lights, of which the secret has been carefully kept,
landscapes are represented in color; all the gradations of light are
given, from the varied twilight hues to purple night, until the moon,
rising, lights anew the picture. During all these variations of color
little groups continue to come and go, acting out the story of a poem,
which the poet delivers from the surrounding obscurity as only an author
can render his own lines.
One of the pillars of this attractive centre was Jules Jouy, who made a
large place for himself in the hearts of his contemporaries—a true poet,
whom neither privations nor the difficult beginnings of an unknown writer
could turn from his vocation. His songs are alternately tender, gay, and
bitingly sarcastic. Some of his better-known ballads were written for
and marvellously interpreted by Yvette Guilbert. The difficult critics,
Sarcey and Jules Lemaître, have sounded his praise again and again.
A _cabaret_ of another kind which enjoyed much celebrity, more on account
of the personality of the poet who founded it than from any originality
or picturesqueness in its intallation, was the “Mirliton,” opened by
Aristide Bruant in the little rooms that had sheltered the original “Chat
Noir.”
To give an account of the “Mirliton” is to tell the story of Bruant, the
most popular ballad-writer in France to-day. This original and eccentric
poet is as well-known to a Parisian as the boulevards or the Arc de
Triomphe. His costume of shabby black velvet, Brittany waistcoat, red
shirt, top-boots, and enormous hat is a familiar feature in the
caricatures and prints of the day. His little _cabaret_ remains closed
during the day, opening its doors toward evening. The personality of the
ballad-writer pervades the atmosphere. He walks about the tiny place
hailing his acquaintances with some gay epigram, receiving strangers with
easy familiarity or chilling disdain, as the humor takes him; then in a
moment, with a rapid change of expression, pouring out the ringing lines
of one of his ballads—always the story of the poor and humble, for he has
identified himself with the outcast and the disinherited. His volumes
_Dans la Rue_ and _Sur la Route_ have had an enormous popularity, their
contents being known and sung all over France.
In 1892 Bruant was received as a member of the society of _Gens de
Lettres_. It may be of interest to recall a part of the speech made by
François Coppée on the occasion: “It is with the greatest pleasure that I
present to my confrères my good friend, the ballad-writer, Aristide
Bruant. I value highly the author of _Dans la Rue_. When I close his
volume of sad and caustic verses it is with the consoling thought that
even vice and crime have their conscience: that if there is suffering
there is a possible redemption. He has sought his inspiration in the
gutter, it is true, but he has seen there a reflection of the stars.”
In the Avenue Trudaine, not far from the other _cabarets_, the “Ane
Rouge” was next opened, in a quiet corner of the immense suburb, its
shady-little garden, on which the rooms open, making it a favorite
meeting-place during the warm months. Of a summer evening no more
congenial spot can be found in all Paris. The quaint chambers have been
covered with mural paintings or charcoal caricatures of the poets
themselves, or of familiar faces among the clients and patrons of the
place.
One of the many talents that clustered around this quiet little garden
was the brilliant Paul Verlaine, the most Bohemian of all inhabitants of
modern Prague, whose death has left a void, difficult to fill. Fame and
honors came too late. He died in destitution, if not absolutely of
hunger; to-day his admirers are erecting a bronze bust of him in the
Garden of the Luxembourg, with money that would have gone far toward
making his life happy.
In the old hôtel of the Lesdiguières family, rue de la Tour d’Auvergne,
the “Carillon” opened its doors in 1893, and quickly conquered a place in
the public favor, the inimitable fun and spirits of Tiercy drawing crowds
to the place.
The famous “Tréteau de Tabarin,” which to-day holds undisputed precedence
over all the _cabarets_ of Paris, was among the last to appear. It was
founded by the brilliant Fursy and a group of his friends. Here no pains
have been spared to form a setting worthy of the poets and their public.
Many years ago, in the days of the good king Louis XIII., a strolling
poet-actor, Tabarin, erected his little canvas-covered stage before the
statue of Henry IV., on the Pont-Neuf, and drew the court and the town by
his fun and pathos. The founders of the latest and most complete of
Parisian _cabarets_ have reconstructed, as far as possible, this historic
scene. On the wall of the room where the performances are given, is
painted a view of old Paris, the Seine and its bridges, the towers of
Notre Dame in the distance, and the statue of Louis XIII.’s warlike
father in the foreground. In front of this painting stands a staging of
rough planks, reproducing the little theatre of Tabarin. Here, every
evening, the authors and poets play in their own pieces, recite their
verses, and tell their stories. Not long ago a young musician, who has
already given an opera to the world, sang an entire one-act operetta of
his composition, changing his voice for the different parts, imitating
choruses by clever effects on the piano.
Montmartre is now sprinkled with attractive _cabarets_, the taste of the
public for such informal entertainments having grown each year; with
reason, for the careless grace of the surroundings, the absence of any
useless restraint or obligation as to hour or duration, has a charm for
thousands whom a long concert or the inevitable five acts at the Français
could not tempt. It would be difficult to overrate the influence such an
atmosphere, breathed in youth, must have on the taste and character. The
absence of a sordid spirit, the curse of our material day and generation,
the contact with intellects trained to incase their thoughts in serried
verse or crisp and lucid prose, cannot but form the hearer’s mind into a
higher and better mould. It is both a satisfaction and a hope for the
future to know that these influences are being felt all over the capital
and throughout the length and breadth of France. There are at this
moment in Paris alone three or four hundred poets, ballad writers, and
_raconteurs_ who recite their works in public.
It must be hard for the untravelled Anglo-Saxon to grasp the idea that a
poet can, without loss of prestige, recite his lines in a public _café_
before a mixed audience. If such doubting souls could, however, be
present at one of these _noctes ambrosianæ_, they would acknowledge that
the Latin temperament can throw a grace and child-like abandon around an
act that would cause an Englishman or an American to appear supremely
ridiculous. One’s taste and sense of fitness are never shocked. It
seems the most natural thing in the world to be sitting with your glass
of beer before you, while some rising poet, whose name ten years later
may figure among the “Immortal Forty,” tells to you his loves and his
ambition, or brings tears into your eyes with a description of some
humble hero or martyr.
From the days of Homer poetry has been the instructor of nations. In the
Orient to-day the poet story-teller holds his audience spellbound for
hours, teaching the people their history and supplying their minds with
food for thought, raising them above the dull level of the brutes by the
charm of his verse and the elevation of his ideas. The power of poetry
is the same now as three thousand years ago. Modern skeptical Paris,
that scoffs at all creeds and chafes impatiently under any rule, will sit
to-day docile and complaisant, charmed by the melody of a poet’s voice;
its passions lulled or quickened, like Alexander’s of old, at the will of
a modern Timotheus.