IN the short, busy little street, the Rue de l'Ancienne-ComÉdie, which runs from the Boulevard St. Germain, in a line from the ThÉÂtre National de l'OdÉon and connecting with the Rue Mazarin, its continuation, the heavy dome of the Institut looming at its end, is to be found probably the most famous cafÉ in Paris, for in its day it has been the rendezvous of the most noted French littÉrateurs, politicians, and savants. What is more, the Procope was the first cafÉ established in Paris, originating the appellation "cafÉ" to a place where coffee is served, for it was here that coffee was introduced to France as an after-dinner comforter.
That was when the famous cafÉ was in its glory. Some of the great celebrities who made it famous have been dead for nearly two hundred years, though its greatest fame came a century afterwards; and now the cafÉ, no longer glorious as it was when the old ThÉÂtre FranÇais stood opposite, reposes in a quiet street far from the noise and glitter and life of the boulevards, and lives on the splendid memories that crowd it. Other cafÉs by the thousand have sprung into existence, and the word has spread to coffee saloons and restaurants throughout Christendom; and the ancient rive droite nurses the history and relics of the golden days of its glory, alone in a quiet street, surrounded by tightly shut shops, and the calm of a sleeping village.
Still, it retains many of its ancient characteristics and much of the old-time quaintness peculiar to itself and setting it wholly apart, and it is yet the rendezvous of littÉrateurs and artists, who, if not so famous as the great men in whose seats they sit, play a considerable rÔle in the life of modern Paris.
The front of the cafÉ is a neat little terrace off the street, screened by a fanciful net-work of vines and shrubbery that spring from green painted boxes and that conceal cosey little tables and corners placed behind them. Instead of the usual showy plate-windows, one still finds the quaint old window-panes, very small carreaux, kept highly polished by the tireless garÇon apprentice.
Tacked to the white pillars are numerous copies of Le Procope, a weekly journal published by ThÉo, the proprietor of the cafÉ. Its contributors are the authors, journalists, and poets who frequent the cafÉ, and it publishes a number of portraits besides, and some spirited drawings. It is devoted in part to the history of the cafÉ and of the celebrities who have made it famous, and publishes portraits of them, from Voltaire to Paul Verlaine. This same journal was published here over two hundred years ago, in 1689, and it was the means then by which the patrons of the establishment kept in closer touch with their contemporaries and the spirit of the time. ThÉo is proprietor and business manager, as well as editor.
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The following two poems will give an idea of the grace of the matter contained in Le Procope:
À UNE ESPAGNOLE
Au loin, quand, l'oil rÊveur et d'ennuis l'Âme pleine,
Je suivrai sur les flots le vol des alcyons
Chaque soir surgira dans les derniers rayons
Le profil triste et doux d'Ida, de ma sirÈne.
La figure et de lys et d'iris transparente,
Ressortira plus blanche en l'ombre des cheveux
Profonds comme un mystÈre et troublants et mes yeux
Boiront dans l'IdÉal sa caresse enivrante.
Et je rechercherai l'Énigme du sourire
Railleur ou de pitiÉ qui luisait dans ses yeux
En des paillettes d'or sous ses beaux cils ombreux....
Et je retomberai dans la tristesse... et dire
Qu'un seul mot me rendrait et la vie et l'espoir:
Belle, mon rendez-vous n'est-il point pour ce soir?
L Birr.
PETITE CHANSON DÉSOLÉE
Je suis seul dans la grande ville
OÙ nul n'a fÊtÉ mon retour,
Cour vide, et cerveau qui vacille,
Sans projet, sans but, sans amour
Je suis seul dans la grande ville.
Le dos voÛtÉ, les bras ballants,
Je marche au hasard dans la foule
A longs pas lourds et nonchalants,
On me pousse, heurte, refoule,
Le dos voÛtÉ, les bras ballants.
Je suis accablÉ de silence,
De ce silence intÉrieur,
Tel un brouillard subtil et dense,
Qui tombe À plis lourds sur le cour,
Je suis accablÉ de silence.
Ah! quand viendront les jours heureux,
Quand viendra la chÈre attendue
Qu'espÈre mon cour amoureux,
Qu'implore mon Âme Éperdue,
Ah! quand viendront les jours heureux!
Achille Segard.
Here is a particularly charming little poem, written in the musical French of two or three centuries ago:
UN BAYSER
Sur vostre lÈvre fraÎche et rose,
Ma mye, ah! laissiez-moi poser
Cette tant bonne et doulce chose,
Un bayser.
Telle une fleur au jour Éclose,
le vois vostre teint se roser;
Si ie vous redonnois,—ie n'ose,
Un bayser.
Laissiez-moi vous prendre, inhumaine,
A chascun iour de la sepmaine
Un bayser.
Trop tÔt viendront vieil aage et peine!
Lors n'aurez plus, l'eussiez-vous reine,
Un bayser.
Maistre Guillaume.
The modern gas illumination of the cafÉ, in contrast to the fashion of brilliant lighting that prevails in the showy cafÉs of the boulevards, must nevertheless be a great advance on the ancient way that it had of being lighted with crude oil lamps and candelabra. But the dim illumination is in perfect keeping with the other appointments of the place, which are dark, sombre, and funereal. The interior of the Procope is as dark as a finely colored old meerschaum pipe. The woodwork, the chairs, and the tables are deeply stained by time, the contrasting white marble tops of the tables suggesting gravestones; and with all these go the deeply discolored walls and the many ancient paintings,—even the caisse, behind which sits Madame ThÉo, dozing over her knitting. This caisse is a wonderful piece of furniture in itself, of some rich dark wood, beautifully carved and decorated.
Madame ThÉo is in black, her head resting against the frame of an old crayon portrait of Voltaire on the wall behind her. A fat and comfortable black cat is asleep in the midst of rows of white saucers and snowy napkins. The only garÇon, except the garÇon apprentice, is sitting in a corner drowsing over an evening paper, but ever ready to answer the quiet calls of the customers. For in the matter of noise and frivolity the CafÉ Procope is wholly unlike the boulevard cafÉs. An atmosphere of refined and elegant suppression pervades the place; the roystering spirit that haunts the boulevards stops at the portals of the Procope. Here all is peace and tranquillity, and that is why it is the haunt of many earnest and aspiring poets and authors; for hither they may bring their portfolios in peace and security, and here they may work upon their manuscripts, knowing that their neighbors are similarly engrossed and that intrusion is not to be feared. And then, too, are they not sitting on the same chairs and writing at the same tables that have been occupied by some of the greatest men in all the brilliant history of France? Is not this the place in which greatness had budded and blossomed in the centuries gone? Are not these ancient walls the same that echoed the wit, badinage, and laughter of the masters? And there are the portraits of the great themselves, looking down benignly and encouragingly upon the young strugglers striving to follow in their footsteps, and into the ghostly mirrors, damaged by time and now sending back only ghosts of shadows, they look as the great had looked before them. It is here, therefore, that many of the modern geniuses of France have drawn their inspiration, shaking off the endless turmoil of the noisy and bustling world, living with the works and memories of the ancient dead, and working out their destiny under the magic spell that hovers about the place. It is for this reason that the habituÉs are jealous of the intrusion of the curious and worldly. In this quiet and secure retreat they feel no impinging of the wearing and crippling world that roars and surges through the busy streets and boulevards.
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M. ThÉo de Bellefond is the full name of the proprietor, but he is commonly known as M. ThÉo. He is a jolly little man, with an ambitious round stomach, a benevolent face covered with a Vandyke beard, and a shining bald head. A large flowing black cravat, tied into an artistic nÉgligÉ bow, hides his shirt. M. ThÉo came into possession of the Procope in 1893, a fact duly recorded on a door panel, along with the names of over a score of the celebrities who have made the Procope their place of rest, refection, and social enjoyment. M. Procope was a journalist in his day, but now the ambition that moves him is to restore the ancient glory of the Procope; to make it again the centre of French brains and power in letters, art, and politics. To this end he exerts all his journalistic tact, a fact clearly shown by the able manner in which he conducts his journal, Le Procope. He has worked out the history of the cafÉ, and has at the ends of his fingers the life- stories of its famous patrons.
The CafÉ Procope was founded in 1689 by FranÇois Procope, where it now stands. Opposite was the ComÉdie FranÇaise, which also was opened that year. The cafÉ soon became the rendezvous of all who aspired to greatness in art, letters, philosophy, and politics. It was here that Voltaire, in his eighty-second year, while attending the rehearsals of his play, "IrÈne," descended from his chaise-À-porteur at the door of the CafÉ Procope, and drank the coffee which the cafÉ had made fashionable. It was here also that he became reconciled to Piron, after an estrangement of more than twenty years.
Ste.-Foix made trouble here one day about a cup of chocolate. A duel with the proprietor of the cafÉ was the immediate result, and after it Ste.-Foix, badly wounded, exclaimed, "Nevertheless, monsieur, your sword-thrust does not prevent my saying that a very sickly dÉjeuner is une tasse de chocolat!"
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, after the successful representation of "Le Devin de Village," was carried in triumph to the Procope by Condorcet, who, with Jean-Jacques on his shoulders, made a tour of the crowded cafÉ, yelling, "Vive la Musique FranÇaise!" Diderot was fond of sitting in a corner and manufacturing paradoxes and materialistic dissertations to provoke the lieutenant of police, who would note everything he said and report it to the chief of police. The lieutenant, ambitious though stupid, one night told his chief that Diderot had said one never saw souls; to which the chief returned, "M. Diderot se trompe. L'Âme est un esprit, et M. Diderot est plein d'esprit."
Danton delighted in playing chess in a quiet corner with a strong adversary in the person of Marat. Many other famous revolutionists assembled here, among them Fabre d'Eglantine, Robespierre, d'Holbach, Mirabeau, Camille Desmoulins. It was here that Camille Desmoulins was to be strangled by the reactionists in the Revolution; it was here that the first bonnet rouge was donned. The massacre of December, 1792, was here- planned, and the killing began at the very doors of the cafÉ. Madame Roland, Lucille Desmoulins, and the wife of Danton met here on the ioth of August, the day of the fall of the monarchy, when bells rang and cannon thundered. It was later that Bonaparte, then quite young and living in the Quai Conti, in the building which the American Art Association now occupies, left his hat at the Procope as security for payment for a drink, he having left his purse at home. In short, the old cafÉ of the Rue des FossÉs-St.-Ger-main (its old name) was famous as the meeting-place of celebrities. Legendre, the great geometrician, came hither. One remembers the verses of Masset: "Je joue aux dominos quelquefois chez Procope." Here Gambetta made speeches to the reactionist politicians and journalists. He engaged in more than one prise de bec with le pÈre Coquille, friend of Veuillot. Coquille always made sprightly and spirited replies when Gambetta roared, thundered, and swore.
Since then have followed days of calm. In later times Paul Verlaine was a frequenter of the Procope, where he would sit in his favorite place in the little rear salon at Voltaire's table. This little salon, in the rear of the cafÉ, is held sacred, for its chair and table are the ones that Voltaire used to occupy. The table is on one side of the small room. On the walls are many interesting sketches in oil by well-known French artists, and there are fine ceiling decorations; but all these are seen with difficulty, so dim is the light in the room. Since Voltaire's time this table has become an object of curiosity and veneration. When celebrated habituÉs of the cafÉ died this table was used as an altar, upon which for a time reposed the bust of the decedent before crÊpe-covered lanterns.
During the Revolution HÉbert jumped upon this table, which had been placed before the door of the cafÉ, and harangued the crowd gathered there, exciting them to such a pitch that they snatched the newspapers from the hands of the news-venders. In a moment of passionate appeal he brought down his heavy boot-heel upon the marble with such force as to split it.
In the cafÉ are three doors that are decorated in a very interesting fashion. On the panels of one, well preserved in spite of the numerous transformations through which the establishment has gone, M. ThÉo conceived the happy idea of inscribing in gold letters the names of the illustrious who have visited the cafÉ since its founding. Many of the panels of the Avails are taken with full-length portraits by Thomas, representing, among others, Voltaire, Rousseau, Robespierre, Diderot, Danton and Marat playing chess, Mirabeau, and Gambetta. There are smaller sketches by Corot, d'Aubigny, Vallon, Courbet, Willette, and Roedel. Some of them are not fine specimens of art.
M. ThÉo is a devoted collector of rare books and engravings. His library, which contains many very rare engravings of the eighteenth century and more than one book of priceless value, is open to his intimate friends only, with whom he loves to ramble through his treasures and find interesting data of his cafÉ.
