You may find yourself wondering (yet again) what these subjects could possibly have in common. Of course, if you have been following my blogs, you will realize that every topic I tackle has some link to my novels, but these particular subjects have something else in common: These were all places that a person in turn-of-the-century Paris might very likely find themselves after a night on the town.
Am I really saying that enjoying the Parisian nightlife might put someone in Hell? Yes, indeed. And even willingly! After entering Hell, they might as easily slip back out again and go into Heaven for a bit, then stroll a little further on and find the open doors of Death waiting for them! And what about Dick's Last Resort? All in good time. As covered in previous blogs, the Parisian fascination with the bizarre and macabre was not limited to novels and plays; the Morgue was a highly popular attraction, and drew thousands of visitors every day with nothing but dead bodies on display to draw the crowds. You can read my blog on that here. But La Morgue was only open during the day, and it was Montmartre where the nightlife took up the torch of the bizarre and unusual. Though more typical nightclubs, like the Moulin Rouge, were abundant, several chose to focus on specific themes to draw crowds wanting to experience the extraordinary. Four of these clubs will be discussed here: Le Ciel (Heaven), L'Enfer (Hell), Le Cabaret du Neant (Cafe of Nothingness), and a peculiar club named Le Mirliton, which was owned by none other than Aristide Bruant, and can only be compared to the modern phenomenon known as 'Dick's Last Resort'.
The best account of these peculiar establishments is found in a book titled 'Bohemian Paris of Today', written by W. C. Morrow and illustrated by Edouard Cucuel.
W. C. Morrow relates his experiences as a student in Paris in a highly entertaining fashion. The book is in the public domain, and can be downloaded through most free book apps and websites. I will include a link to a pdf at the bottom of this article. For anyone interested in Paris or the 19th century, the book is an entertaining and candid view into the everyday lives of Parisians, including tidbits you wouldn't find in the ordinary guidebook of the day. Morrow's account of these clubs, described in great detail in his chapter titled 'A Night on Montmarte' describes four of the strangest attractions in Paris, two of which I have included in my novel, Grayscale. At the request of a visiting friend, Morrow and his roommate, Bishop, give their friend a tour of the real Paris. Their innocent friend suggests visiting the opera, but the two students have better plans:
'"I suppose, gentlemen," he suggested, "that you are going to invite me to the opera. Now, I have no objections to that, and I am sure I shall be delighted,—it is only one evening in a lifetime, perhaps. But I shall insist that you go as my guests."
Bishop laughed merrily, and slapped his friend on the back in a way that I never should have employed with a man of so much dignity. "The opera, old man!" cried Bishop. "Why, you blessed idiot, you act like a tourist! The opera! You can go there any time. To-night we shall see Paris!" and he laughed again. "The opera!" he repeated. "Oh, my! You can fall over the opera whenever you please. This is an opportunity for a tour of discovery."'
Le Cabaret du Ciel
Heaven, of course, was the first stop. Unsurprisingly, the Heaven and Hell clubs of Paris were connected, and were next door to each other. Guests could then easily compare the two very different atmospheres. The exteriors of the two clubs were strikingly different. Le Cabaret du Ciel (on the left) was painted white and blue, and attempted to imitate an idea of heavenly bliss. Its neighbor, Le Cabaret de L'Enfer (on the right), had an entrance that was far more memorable. It was painted in black and red, with intricately carved statues of suffering souls, while the entrance itself was a hideous, gaping mouth, which swallowed up those who dared enter. Both clubs sold alcohol, and were nothing more than mockeries of the ultimate destinations they claimed to represent. It is unlikely that they played much of a role in getting anyone to consider the fate of their souls, but they certainly made for a memorable night.
Inside the Cabaret du Ciel, the ceiling was vaulted like a miniature cathedral, painted to invoke images of blue skies and white clouds, while many cheap ornaments lined the walls in some faux imitation of religiosity. The servers were dressed as angels, with white robes, wings, and halos, and the beer flowed as freely as the milk and honey of Canaan – so long as the bill was paid. The club was small, and allowed room for only one long table running down the center, around which the 'angels' flitted, filling drinks which were given special names, such as 'star-dazzler' or 'heaven's own brew'. Saint Peter also was present, dressed in (cheap imitations of) rich robes, carrying large golden (painted) keys, and bearing a basin of 'holy' water, from which he would occasionally anoint the guests by flicking them with the water inside it. Music was provided by harps and lyres until it was time to enter the inner courts of heaven for a show. Morrow records the request of their angelic waiter as follows:
"Youarre Eengleesh?" he asked. "Yes? Ah, theece Eengleesh arre verra genereauz," eyeing his fifty-centime tip with a questioning shrug. "Can you not make me un franc? Ah, eet ees dam cold in theece laigs," pointing to his calves, which were encased in diaphanous pink tights. He got his franc.
This 'inner court' was where the real show began, which involved several 'angels' being flown around the room on wired harnesses, which were hidden by the dim light. The dim lights and the bright costumes of the angels presented quite a realistic demonstration of flight for the time, and members of the audience which wished to participate were also brought backstage and fitted for flight with a harness, halo, and their own set of wings. Morrow relates that “It was a marvel to see wings so frail transport with so much ease a very stout young woman from the audience, and their being fully clothed did not seem to make any difference.” After this, their own visiting friend volunteered, and got his own flight around the room. If you think the image of a Victorian gentleman being flown around a room in a suit, top-hat, and his very own pair of wings to be a bit unbelievable, it is good to remember that truth is often stranger than fiction. After this brief flight around the room, they were ushered out of the club by an old bent man dressed as Father Time, who promised them a long life with the donation of a generous tip. After all, golden streets can get quite expensive.
Le Cabaret du Neant
From Heaven, Morrow and his comrades crossed the street and entered the reign of Death. This peculiar club may perhaps be the original 'Goth' club, as we understand the term today. The exterior windows were blacked out, and the only external advertisement was a large sign proclaiming the name, summoning up an image of eternal non-existence. The interior was far more decorative, with all the macabre articles which we would find familiar in a Goth club today: Skeletal chandeliers, tables made of coffins, funeral candles, black everywhere. Walls were decorated with skulls, bones, and images of death or assassination, interspersed with instruments of execution like guillotines.
The waiters were dressed as pall-bearers, and addressed every visitor by the title 'Maccabe' or 'Macabit', which is the argot term for a corpse pulled from a river. In Paris, these bodies were plentiful. The Morgue – itself an attraction of immense popularity – was built on the edge of the Seine river for the specific purpose of snagging these corpses from its waters. Drinks in the club of death were named after diseases, and waiters were heard calling for an order of 'Asiatic Cholera' or 'a sample of our consumption germ'.
Like the Cabaret du Ciel, the visitors were asked to enter a special chamber for a demonstration. Within, instead of angels, they were greeted with a coffin, containing inside a beautiful woman. The show consisted of a Pepper's Ghost illusion which slowly transformed the girl into a rotting corpse, and finally into a skeleton. This fascinating 'holographic' illusion was invented by Henry Dircks and improved by John Henry Pepper. It was not debuted until 1863, and though it gained popularity rapidly for its fantastic appearance, by the early 1890's, the technology would have still been quite novel and shocking. Even today, the same technology has been used to project a hologram of musical artists like Tupac and Michael Jackson for 'live' concerts of the dead. The same principle is used in HUDs (Head's Up Displays). Again, like the Cabaret du Ciel, visitors were asked if they would dare experience death, and were taken backstage to be 'placed in the coffin', and see how the effect was produced, while the rest of the audience got to see one of their own transformed into a skeleton, and back again.
Le Cabaret de L'Enfer
After facing death, Morrow and his friends recrossed the street and prepared to enter the gates of Hell. Passing under the unforgettable entrance, they entered into the cloying interior pulled straight from Dante's Inferno. The intricately carved ceiling and walls were like nothing else in Paris, despite the cramped interior. Much like the Heaven and Death clubs, Hell's waiters were dressed to impress, wearing red tights and dressed like Victorian caricatures of demons and imps. The entrance was guarded by one such as these, who exclaimed “Ah, ah, ah! Still they come! Oh, how they will roast!” by way of welcome. A band of demons (curiously lacking a golden fiddle) played music for the guests from a giant cauldron, rather than a stage. Drinks were brought in glasses which glowed with a curious green light, and the entire place was bathed in a red glow from secret fires, created by red-shaded lamps placed into holes hidden within the cave-like walls.
Again, a performance was given in a back room, where men and women dressed as devils performed feats of agility and skill, but this time, no guests were asked to volunteer.
Both Heaven and Hell were owned by Antonin Alexander, who often played the role of Mephistopheles in L'Enfer, dressed in red tights and a horned hat. All three of these clubs opened in the early 1890's, and would have been brand new when Grayscale is set. The fourth club which Morrow and his friends visit is quite different from the first three, but also similar. These clubs offered very little in the way of shows or theater, and are the inspiration for what we now call 'themed restaurants': places where the atmosphere and novelty are the main attractions.
Le Mirliton: Bruant's Last Resort
If you are unfamiliar with the 'Dick's Last Resort' restaurant chain, the simplest explanation of their appeal is their rudeness. Wikipedia describes them as being known for “intentional employment of an obnoxious staff.” Guests are insulted, called names, and generally treated badly – all by design. Instead of having napkins on the table, servers are instructed to simply throw them at guests. Even in today's uncouth society, the idea of investing in a restaurant where service is intentionally bad seems quite strange, but Dick Chase was not the first to test such an idea.
Louis Armand Aristide Bruant was born in 1851 to a wealthy family, but was forced to seek his own way upon the death of his father in 1866. He spent much time in the bars and clubs of the working class, and quickly adopted their argot, becoming a singer and comedian. Not long after, his popularity was unquestioned, and his iconic black cape and red scarf made him easily recognizable wherever he performed. He opened his own club in 1885, and though the name is not mentioned in 'Bohemian Paris of Today', Bruant's name is. Morrow's description of their experience in Bruant's club is nothing short of hilarious. The entire atmosphere of the club seems intended to repel guests, rather than welcome them, and yet Bruant was extremely popular.
To my knowledge, no photographs exist of Bruant's original club, though Morrow gives us some description. The exterior of Bruant's original club was unadorned and uninviting. Guests must knock and ask for entrance, which is given only begrudgingly, after several iron bolts are thrown back. Morrow records the following musical verse as being the welcome which is sung when guests enter: "Oh, là là! c'te gueule— C'te binette. Oh, là là, c'te gueule, Qu'il a.” which Morrow neglects to translate for his readers. Although I have found no exact translation for this French verse, I have discovered that “C'te binette” roughly means “shut your mouth”. It is certain that the rest of the verse is equally impolite. The Maitre D' is described as equipped with a large bludgeon, with which he threatens guests who do not listen to the poets' and musicians' performances with appropriate gusto. After a waiter appears, demanding their drink order in no polite terms, and then demanding payment directly after, while loudly complaining about the meager tip, Morrow remarks that their English friend “seemed to fear being brained at any moment. Retreat had been rendered impossible by the locking of the door. We were prisoners at the will of our jailer, and so were all the others.” Bruant himself makes an appearance in Morrow's memoirs, hopping onto one of the tables and reciting a poem which Morrow was thankful their guest did not understand.
After being appropriately insulted, guests were begrudgingly allowed to leave, and were sent on their way with the cheerful refrain floating after them of “Tout les clients sont des cochons” (all our customers are pigs) and other such insults to speed them on their way.
The experience was certainly one-of-a-kind for 19th century Paris. I enjoyed Morrow's account of this club so much that it plays a large role in Grayscale. Bruant himself is a fascinating character, bridging the gap between the Bohemian and the Aristocratic Paris, with songs and poems that depict the harsh reality of city life rather than the idyllic, but in a manner that was comedic, if rather jarring to those of more delicate sensibilities.
These four clubs would have certainly made a memorable evening for the average Victorian gentleman, and were the beginning of themed attractions designed to intentionally cause discomfort, rather than comfort. From themed restaurants like Chuck E. Cheese and Medieval Times, to haunted houses and escape rooms, we still seek out the things which throw us into situations both foreign and bizarre. The Heaven and Hell clubs survived up through World War II, but were dismantled soon after. None of these clubs exist today, and can only be experienced by photos and memoirs, but the impact they had on entertainment can be seen everywhere.
For more information on these clubs or my novel, Grayscale, check out these links:
Grayscale - by Paul Campbell
The Pepper's Ghost Illusion - a short Youtube video
Bohemian Paris of Today - read online with Project Gutenberg
Aristide Bruant - Article by Michael L. Wilson
Cabaret du Neant - Wikipedia article
Cabaret de l'Enfer - Wikipedia article
Cabaret du Ciel - Wikipedia article
The Heaven and Hell Clubs - by Racing Nellie Bly
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