The playwright, Aimé Ducrocq, is the founder and manager of a cozy blue-and-gold bonbonnière of a theater called the “Rabelais,” in Montmartre. Here, as the title suggests, the comedies and farces are thoroughly Rabelaisian. It might even be averred that they are more so than elsewhere, which is saying a great deal. Here farces like “La Vertu De Nini,” “La Journée d’une Demi-Mondaine” and “Le Corset de Germaine” pack the small auditorium nightly. Many of these are written to a point where the curtain discreetly drops upon the situation, but none of them harbors a line or a gesture of vulgarity. It is not worth while having trouble with the police, and happily the French policeman is both broad-minded and discreet in enforcing an arbitrary rule. When you ask a policeman here why a thing is prohibited he will shrug his shoulders, stare at you in astonishment, and reply brusquely: “It is prohibited because it is prohibited!”
Which settles all further argument.
There are but two things which I find absolutely interdicted: malicious satires against the Government, and breaking the Parisian peace. The rest, which has merely to do with “l’Amour,” seems to the policemen not worth bothering their heads about.
A “’Cipal” (municipal guard) is detailed during a performance of any kind in Paris in every theater, music-hall or cabaret, to jot down in a small black-covered book anything which may offend his sense of delicacy, but he is generally too hugely amused in watching the stage to do so. During moments like these his ruddy visage, with its bristly mustache, at other times so stern, is wreathed in wrinkles of delight, and his formidable short sword sleeps peacefully in its scabbard. These are the lighter hours of his existence; where he is needed you will find him brave as a bulldog and quick as a cat, and intelligent and honest as well. You cannot bribe a French policeman.
The one who generously offered me half his seat at a crowded performance the other night poured forth his opinions sotto voce during the second act of a risqué comedy. He was sincere and enthusiastic in his praise of our President and struck his brass-buttoned chest as he pronounced him a good man and a brave soldier; however, I regret that some of his views of La Fayette are unfit for publication, as he regarded him as a traitor to France.
“Oui, monsieur,” he said, savagely; “a man who gave his strength and knowledge and power to another country when that man belonged to our army was a traitor.” He said other things, too, about the gentleman, but they will not bear a graceful translation.
Below the Rabelais, past an iron grill and at the end of a cobbled court in the Rue Chaptal, is the “Grand Guignol.” Its oak interior in carved Gothic was once the studio of the celebrated painter, Rochegrosse, and resembles at first glance, except for the boxes running beneath the low choir gallery, the lecture room of a modern Episcopal church. The prevailing tone of the room, gray corduroy and oak, is thoroughly restful. From the spandrelled ceiling hang iron chandeliers of ecclesiastical design. A paneled frieze of allegorical paintings, representing the human passions—envy, hate and jealousy—enrich the cove. Carved angels support the corbels of the ceiling beams, and a square of rare Gobelins tapestry enriches the wall back of the gallery. A simple proscenium, in keeping with the rest of this exquisite interior, fills the end of the room.
Drawing by F. Berkeley Smith
PAULINE